Divided I Stand
by SpecterQueen
Summary: Civil war breaks out and America struggles to come to terms with what this means to him as a nation. A troubling alternate version of himself emerges in the south. Russia attempts to comfort America in these dark times and offer support when he can. /2p America x America / RusAme pairings
1. Soulmate

Notes & Warning: Please take not that this story depicts 2p America as the Confederacy & contains real historical figures portrayed in a fictional manner.

* * *

Ch 1: Soulmate

America accepted it. He hated it but he accepted it. What other choice did he have? Civil wars were hell on any nation, but he resolved to do his best. In fact, he really didn't know too much about how they truly affected nations, and that deeply concerned him. This was definitely a time when he wished England had been a little more thoughtful in raising him properly. Or that he had bothered to ask more important questions to the other nations throughout his admittedly short life. Still it was not an easy subject to breach.

However, no amount of talking and informative discussions could have prepared him for what happened on his attempted trip to Fort Sumter. He was enroute to South Carolina with a group of men to personally witness the place that his Civil War had officially started. It was a foolish idea and the president had tried to talk him out of it. He couldn't articulate exactly why, but America felt that he really needed to see the fort in person, even if just from a distance. In the end the president had reluctantly agreed and assigned a group of experienced military men to offer some protection. They all wisely dressed as civilians to disguise themselves and set on out on the long journey.

After they had passed through the border of North Carolina to South Carolina the incident happened. America's men had stuck relatively close to the coast for most of the trip. There was still a little further to go before they reached Charleston. Most of them felt fortunate that the trip had been entirely without incident considering they were Union soldiers in Confederate land, even if they weren't dressed the part.

The deafening blast of a rifle sounded, and America felt a spray of warm liquid hit his face. He turned stunned eyes in enough time to see the man next to him fall from his horse and crumple to the ground dead. The remaining men surrounded him, drawing their weapons, and America forced himself to pry his eyes from his fallen soldier and the blood and brains now decorating his coat. He could not see beyond his shouting men and figured at this point it was pretty obvious they were not simple travelers. He was an easily recognizable person, he was certain. More gun shots rang out and he scrambled to draw his revolver as more men fell.

"Get out of the way and let me fight!" he yelled while trying to keep his agitated horse calm.

The man in front of him, Williams was his name, turned to respond just in time to be shot in the chest. He grimaced grasping at the torn hole and slumped forward. Another bullet hit him in the arm and he finally fell to the ground with a thump. When America raised his eyes to gaze around he was brought to the alarming realization that all but one of his men had fallen, possibly all dead. But there he sat, bewildered and untouched. Panic gripped his heart as he slipped from his horse and tried to hold his gun steady in his trembling hands. The fact he was virtually immortal did nothing to calm his nerves.

Men in Confederate uniforms started to emerge from the forest around them and they were without a doubt outnumbered. Mercifully they did not shoot the remaining man with him, and allowed him to surrender. Two Confederate soldiers advanced on America, grabbing him roughly by each arm and confiscating his weapons. They drug him a short distance and shoved him forward. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. His hands clenched the leaves and dirt below them as he grit his teeth in frustration. They had to know who he was to be giving him this special treatment.

"Hey, pretty boy, what are you doing on my side of the fence?" came a familiar yet totally foreign voice.

America jerked his head up and stared, eyes impossibly wide, at the man walking leisurely towards him. He took in the man's appearance quickly. Clean Confederate uniform perhaps a general rank, he wasn't sure, dark auburn hair, tan skin, a sleazy smirk, brown eyes that appeared almost red, and a build similar to his own. A strange sensation washed over him, and he reared up onto his knees as the man came to stop in front of him and knelt to eye level. It churned in his stomach before breaking and spreading throughout his limbs in a sickening wave. The eyes looking directly into his own, the face, the body, the hand now reaching out for him…they were all his mirror image. The hand of the twin stranger came to rest on his shoulder and sent little jolts, like an electrical charge, coursing through his arm upon contact. He tried to recoil but the hand tightened.

"Oh, that's interesting!" said the man raising his eyebrows. "Feels kind of nice." The whole time he addressed America his eyes never wavered, and upon a closer look, they were indeed red.

"Who…are you?" ground out America. Somehow he felt simultaneously repulsed and attracted to this man that had his face. His hands rose to grip the uniform jacket of the man against his will, and he clung to him in a desperate attempt to gain some sense of reality.

"My name is Thomas F. Jones," said the man inching his face uncomfortably close to America's, "better known to you as the Confederate States of America."

America felt nauseous and broke out into a cold sweat as his fears were confirmed. Was such a thing even possible? Could a civil war create such a being? Why had he never been warned of such an important thing? His mind reeled and the son of a bitch's face was far too close. He tried to push him away, but his arms would not obey him. Instead the traitors tried to pull Thomas closer.

"Strange, right?" asked Thomas obligingly pulling America against him and loosely wrapping one arm around his back, while letting the other rest on the back of his head. "I can feel your disgust for me resonating in my chest, yet…you can't pull away. Can you?"

As Thomas tightened his hold on America, the jolts intensified making him twitch slightly. At first it was nearly unbearable, but it soon started to morph into something close to pleasure. His arms started to shake as he mustered all of his willpower to push Thomas away. This time it worked and he was panting from the effort as his twin smiled back at him amused.

"You sure are a stubborn one," laughed Thomas. "You'll be a lot of fun to play with."

Abruptly, Thomas withdrew from America, and much to his horror all he wanted to do was pull him back. For a brief moment he thought he was going to be freed, but Thomas was taking the rifle from his back. He started to sputter protests thinking that he was likely going to be shot…by himself. Almost too quickly to follow, Thomas moved behind him and brought the rifle butt down sharply against the back of his head. The world slipped away and he swore somebody caught him before he completely lost consciousness.

* * *

Clips of sounds, murmuring voices, the feeling of movement, the sound of horse hooves. The world came back into view briefly, unfocused, and then faded out again. This happened maybe once more, perhaps it lasted longer, America wasn't really sure. The third time, he slowly blinked his eyes gazing blearily into harsh sunlight. His surroundings came into focus, and he noticed that he was now in a room in a house. It was obviously a very elegant house. Shiny, pine floors, fancy wood panel walls, long, lacey curtains flowing softly in the breeze of the open windows, an imported area rug, and expensive furniture set quite a lavish picture for him to take in. As his hands curled into the soft quilt below him reflexively, he also took note that he was laying upon a large bed.

He sat up and gingerly touched the back of his head where a knot was forming, and startled when he heard the door to the room open. Swiveling his body, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and was hit with a sudden wave of dizziness. He tried standing and lurched forward as his vision darkened at the edges. Strong arms caught him as quickly as he fell and he instantly knew who had caught him.

"Easy there, Alfred," soothed Thomas holding America tightly with one arm while brushing his wayward bangs out of his eyes with a gentle hand.

"Don't call me Alfred, you bastard." The words slipped out of America's mouth in a haze of confusion. The room eventually stopped spinning and he saw that he was once again clinging to Thomas. "Where…am I?"

"We're at a plantation not too far from where I found you," answered Thomas. "I would prefer to call you Alfred," he said with an almost shy smile. "It feels weird to call you 'America' since that's my name too."

"You are not America!" burst out America trying to struggle out of Thomas's embrace. It seemed their strength was evenly matched, though, which explained why he had been able to knock him out in the first place. That in itself was not an easy task, as England often declared, and then threw in some thick-skulled jokes for good measure.

"Oh, but I am, and I think you can feel it when I touch you," said Thomas holding America fast until his struggling died down. "We are definitely two halves of a whole," he said nuzzling his face against his captive and sighing contentedly.

Frustrated tears sprung up in America's eyes as he indeed felt every touch and brush of skin resonate firmly in the core of his being. "Please," he said, his voice cracking, "let me go…"

"I can't do that, darling," said Thomas as he picked up America and lifted him back onto the bed. "You've probably got a concussion. I can't let you go injured. Plus…" he paused as his eyes shifted a shade darker, "I want to know what it feels like."

"What?" asked America lying back against the pillows in defeat as the dizziness threatened to return. "What…do you want to feel?" His mind was growing fuzzier and it was becoming difficult to focus.

"I want to know what it feels like to have sex, essentially with myself," answered Thomas nonchalantly, his lips curling into a lazy grin.

America's own eyes widened at this declaration, and he started to sit up. Thomas firmly shoved him back down while shaking his head. He moved to the door.

"Try to get some rest," he suggested, then left. As an afterthought, he poked his head back into the room. "Oh, and don't try to escape. I've got guys all over the property and forest, and I've given them the okay to shoot to kill. You wouldn't get very far."

The door clicked shut and America wanted to rage with indignation. He wanted to throw a tantrum of epic proportions, but he was simply too weary and exhausted. The long journey and head injury rapidly caught up with him, and before he knew it he was fast asleep.

* * *

The sensation of hands and cloth sliding over his chest awoke him, and he fumbled to grasp the person who dared to touch him while so vulnerable. When his vision cleared, he was staring into the eyes of a shocked young woman. She winced at the crushing grip he had on her wrist and he immediately released her. Scooting into a sitting position, the covers pooled at his waist and he became aware he was completely naked underneath them. The woman had been bathing him, and she averted her gaze as she picked up the water basin and hurried to the door.

"Wait!" he called to her and she froze at the door, brunette curls bouncing slightly. "How long was I asleep?"

She hesitated. "Almost two days," she said softly, then disappeared.

America sighed heavily and lay back on the pillows. He brought a hand to the back of his head relieved to feel that the wound there seemed mostly healed at this point. Maybe now that he was better, the maniac version of him would let him go. He let out a chuckle at how ridiculous that sounded. The door opened again and he did not even bother to move.

"I was informed my sleeping prince woke up," said Thomas sitting on the side of the bed.

America intended to ignore him but he heard a clatter of glassware and instinctively turned towards it. Thomas had brought a tray of food and he was famished. He once again sat up as his mouth watered and his stomach growled. Thomas merely smiled and slid off the bed, sauntering to a table by the window. He sat down at the table admiring the clear, calm night, pouring himself a drink from the decanter that rested on it. America took the opportunity to start unceremoniously shoving food into his mouth as quickly as he could chew and swallow. He was somewhat grateful for Thomas's consideration in not creepily focusing his attention on him as he had most of the short time they had been acquainted. He silently sipped on his whiskey, a small smile ever-present.

"Hey," spoke America in-between bites, nearly finished with the entire spread of meats and bread. "Where are my clothes?" he asked after chugging some water.

"I had them sent to the wash house," answered Thomas glancing at him before returning his gaze to the yard dimly illuminated by pale moonlight. Crickets chirped and the breeze carried in the fragrance of grass and spring air. It was peaceful, tranquil, deceptive. He stood up slowly, walked towards the bed, pausing to dim the lamps on the way.

America had finished eating, but he figured Thomas would have removed the tray from the bed either way. He set it on a dresser, downed the rest of his whiskey, and practically slinked onto the bed next to America. He shifted, uneasy, and pulled the covers up higher on his abdomen, but Thomas paid him no mind pressing his body flush against his side. One of Thomas's hands rested gently on his face urging it to turn. Their mouths hovered mere centimeters from each other, sharing breath, and America hated how natural it felt, how perfectly gratifying it was.

Dark eyelashes descended, delicate and long against his cheeks, as Thomas tilted his head slightly and rubbed his lips against America's. They were so soft, America thought as a surge of desire welled up in his chest. He abruptly crushed their lips together. It was a desperate, sloppy, kiss with clashing teeth and delving tongues. Fingers curled into America's hair and pulled roughly, then roamed down over his cheek, neck, collar bone, and down his chest and abs. Thomas continued to kiss him passionately as America hooked a hand at the back of his knee and pulled him closer, partially over his lap. He then let his hand roam up Thomas's thigh to his ass, kneading the toned and clothed flesh.

America pulled away gasping for air, and his hands groped Thomas's ass, pulling him completely onto his lap. Thomas started languidly grinding against him as his fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt, quickly discarding the unwanted garment. He leaned forward sighing as he placed his hands on America's face, caressing him too tenderly. America wasn't sure he could go through with any of this if it was gentle and loving. Then again, he wasn't sure if he could stop even if he wanted to. He slid his hands up Thomas's back noting that the electric sensation was still there, only now it felt more like an undercurrent, something his body had grown accustomed to.

"I…really don't want to do this," he said. He moved his hands to Thomas's chest, his beautiful tan chest, and tried to push him away. He barely managed a light shove.

"Are you having some performance anxiety, darling?" asked Thomas airily before latching his mouth onto America's neck, sucking and kissing it.

"Fuck you, no…" His hands trembled as he forced them to remain idle. He felt Thomas bite his neck as his hand plunged beneath the blanket to grip his erection. Letting out a strangled moan, his hips jerked up into that warm hand, and he grabbed Thomas's hips painfully hard.

Thomas leaned back, seemingly not bothered by the crushing hold on his hips, and tugged down the covers obscuring his view. The expression on his face was of fascination as he stared for a moment, then started fumbling with his trousers. He unbuttoned them and shoved them down a little, exposing his own erection.

"They really are the same," said Thomas marveling at the sight before him. He pushed his cock down slightly with a thumb, only to have it spring back up, tapping America's in the process.

America shivered unable to pry his eyes from the captivating sight of their matching, aroused phalluses, only differing in color. He continued to gawk as Thomas scooted closer and wrapped his hand around both of them, stroking slowly. Too slowly. America covered Thomas's hand with his own, quickened the pace, watching the alluring and lascivious sight of their cocks sliding together. Some distant part of his mind was screaming at him to stop this obscene act immediately, but it felt so ridiculously good that he staunchly ignored it.

Thomas suddenly withdrew his hand and smacked away America's as it tried to dart back. He kissed America briefly on the mouth, jaw, shoulder, pectoral, and down his abs. He pulled the covers away as he moved down, pausing as he settled in between his legs. His breath ghosted over golden skin as he hooked one arm around a plump thigh, and used the other to gently hold America's cock. He did not take any further action and looked up at America through auburn bangs. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, the tension in the air thickening, and they both knew they were on the verge of something magnificent and disturbing. A true paradox.

Breaking eye contact, Thomas dragged his tongue up the underside of America's cock and then took it deep into his mouth. America groaned, threading his fingers into the shiny hair at his lap. He had experienced fellatio before but it did not feel anywhere close to this amazing. His mind struggled to process all of the foreign yet eerily familiar sensations running rampant throughout his body. There was warmth radiating from his loins and his chest, and the two sources were overlapping, filling him with a searing desire. Starting to feel the telling signs of orgasm, he tugged sharply at Thomas's hair. It had been a while since his last sexual encounter and apparently he was a little pent up. Honestly, it was fairly embarrassing to come this quickly, considering he usually prided himself on being able to last a while.

"Thomas…s…stop," he stuttered, tugging his hair again.

Thomas glanced up at him briefly, red eyes ablaze, and his mouth stretched erotically around his swollen cock. Instead of releasing him like he asked, Thomas started to bob his head faster, reaching a hand to fondle his tightening balls. America tried to buck up, but Thomas's grip on his thigh prevented it. The pressure surged to a critical point and his body froze lingering on that point of intense pleasure.

"Shit," America swore digging his fingers tightly into Thomas's hair. "I'm gonna come!" He rolled his abdomen, struggled to thrust his hips. Everything went fuzzy and white hot as he started to ejaculate into that warm mouth, throat muscles moving to swallow everything he had to offer.

America fell back against the bed panting and spent. Thomas licked his lips, raised his head, and crept up over him with a lopsided grin. He smoothed his bangs out of his eyes, kissed him softly making him taste himself. America grimaced slightly and Thomas chuckled. Before he knew what was happening, America was being rolled onto his stomach.

"What…are you doing?" he asked, still drowsy and definitely wary. The covers had been mostly kicked to the wayside, so he was now completely naked before Thomas's eyes.

"Shhh…don't worry, darling," cooed Thomas in between peppering America's back with kisses as he descended, eventually cupping his butt cheeks with a hum of appreciation. "I'm definitely going to take care of you and this amazing ass."

His mind struggled to decipher the exact meaning of Thomas's words and he distantly registered the rustling of fabric, no doubt pants being discarded. He figured he should be moving, trying to take control of the situation, but he was so comfortable and what was the point, really? He felt his legs being nudged open, and Thomas settled between them heavily, kneading his ass, spreading the cheeks.

"Ah!" America startled at the sudden invasive tongue licking up his perineum and over his entrance. "No…wait…" his voice cut off and he choked out a gasping cry when Thomas's tongue returned to push past the ring of muscle.

It was definitely a new feeling, and America would have squirmed right off of the bed if Thomas did not have such a secure hold on him. Thomas pushed his tongue in deeper, wiggled it as much as he could in the tight canal, and moved his thumbs to its sides to massage the muscle open a little further. His mouth lingered and sucked a bit before disappearing briefly as he reached into his nearby pants to retrieve a small vial. Opening it with a pop, Thomas slicked his fingers with the oil, making sure to close the vial when he was done. His lips returned first, next the tongue, and last a finger joined, pushing into America marginally, carefully. A moan tumbled out of America and he ground his pelvis into the mattress, already starting to get hard again. The finger inside him moved slowly, the tongue retreated, and a second finger slid inside.

That talented, sensual mouth pressed a kiss to his ass, breath rushed into the small of his back, harsh and panting as Thomas rested his forehead there and continued to move his fingers inside America, methodically stretching him open from the inside. He worked patiently, gently probing until he found special, sensitive spots inside America that had him mewling and writhing. Even through a haze of desire America simply could not believe he was allowing this scenario to continue. And it wasn't just because it felt extraordinarily good. Putting these new emotions into words would have been difficult, but it felt like he had reached some sort of epiphany, some grand realization, yet he did not truly understand much of it. Adversely, it also felt visceral and carnal, connective on the most basic level. So naturally, anything Thomas chose to do to him his body and mind readily accepted and responded to. It was more than a little disconcerting because it essentially felt like he had no free will.

Pulling his fingers free, Thomas opened the vial of oil once more, coated his cock, and crowded in closer between America's spread thighs. America felt the head press into him and he let out a long breath, trying to force his overly excited body to relax. Thomas sunk into him in increments, mindful of the cues America's body gave him. It was a shame America could not see the expression on his face when he fully settled in. Thomas hunched over him slightly, let out a shuddering breath, gasped it back in, smoothed a hand up the flawless, golden skinned back below him.

America marveled at the fact that having Thomas buried in him to the hilt was not more uncomfortable. There was definitely a sense of pressure, maybe a slight twinge of pain here and there, but for the most part it felt like he fit…well, like he belonged there. He felt something drip onto his back once, then a couple more followed. Twisting his head around confused, he saw tears overflowing in Thomas's eyes, spilling over his lashes. Before he could ask why he was crying, Thomas pulled out half way and slid back in making America cry out. He set a steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. Any discomfort America had felt quickly abated and transformed into leisurely waves of pleasure, and he was soon rocking back to meet every thrust.

Slowing his pace down to a rolling grind, Thomas leaned over and nuzzled against the side of America's turned face. "You feel like heaven, Alfred," he murmured. "Does it feel good?"

America merely nodded not really wanting to justify the question with a verbal response. It felt fucking incredible, but he wasn't about to admit it. Thomas hummed happily and hitched America's hips up until he was resting on his knees, changing the angle. He returned to thrusting, sinking in further than before, and started to rub against a tender spot that sent jolts through America's body, making his toes curl. A sense of euphoria started to flood his body and a slew of embarrassing sounds started to escape his parted mouth. Thomas picked this opportune moment to reach down between his legs and take hold of this throbbing cock, pumping it with determination.

"Oh!" America exclaimed as he felt those tan fingers close around his length and stroke smooth and quick. "Ah! Ahh, fuck! God…don't stop! Go faster!" He could hardly believe what he was saying and he frankly no longer cared.

The pressure was building, steadily climbing as all of his tactile senses started rushing to a point, begging for release. Thomas obliged him by hammering into him at a fast pace, starting to let out low grunts and groans. He once again bent over America, putting his mouth close to his ear so he could hear every lewd sound that slipped out of it. The sensations spiked sharply, and he let out a sob arching back against Thomas, trying to gain as much friction as possible, shove him in as deep as he could go. He hit the peak and it lulled briefly causing his body to go taut. Thomas turned his head slightly, rubbed his lips against America's sweat slicked neck, and gave a couple clever twists of his wrist that was jerking him off.

America's entire body shuddered violently as he felt the pressure break into surging waves of what felt like adrenaline but was likely some other hormone entirely. He felt his essence shoot out of him in steady intervals as Thomas continued to stroke him through his orgasm. It was the hardest he had ever come in his life and it was mind-blowing and overwhelming and incandescent.

"Oh god," gasped Thomas finally releasing his cock. He braced his arms on either side of America and ground down hard, shoving the trembling man back against the mattress. "Fuck...Fuck!" he cursed loudly as he gave one last harsh thrust and emptied himself deep inside of America. He gave a couple more languid thrusts before collapsing against America as his shaking arms and legs gave out.

They stayed relatively still for a while, struggling to catch their breath and process the intensity of their sexual experience. Without even properly thinking it through, they both knew that they could probably not reproduce this experience with anyone but each other. It had a bit of a sobering effect, yet it was so ripe with possibility. Thomas pulled out carefully, rolled onto his side, and gathered America up into his arms. He nudged the blanket up with his foot and covered them. America wrapped his arms around Thomas seeking any and all physical contact he could get. He lazily noted that the electric feeling had morphed into something different, something far more mild and pleasant.

"I love you, darling," mumbled Thomas pressing a kiss to America's forehead, then his eyelids, and lastly to his mouth.

America made a noncommittal hum as a response and drifted to sleep feeling overwhelmingly content. Despite the peace he felt, sadly all he would have throughout the night were vivid nightmares.

* * *

End Notes: I am doing my best to properly research for this fic, but there will probably be some mistakes. This story will have RusAme in future chapters, and more characters (that may not be completely historically accurate, but I will try to keep it close). While I do love historical accuracy, I want to be a little flexible with this story. Thank you for reading and comments are appreciated! Please try to keep them constructive, though.


	2. Victims of Contingency

Notes: Thomas = 2p America & Confederate America

Please take note that this story includes real historical figures portrayed in a fictional manner.

* * *

Ch 2: Victims of Contingency

He stood at the edge of a precipice. Staring past his feet, down the rock face, he saw the ocean churning violently below. The skies overhead were gray and dismal, threatening to rain at any moment. While he did not know where he was, he was certain it was not his homeland. Jutting a foot out over the lip of the cliff, he vaguely recalled that something of grave importance required his attention. Try as he may, he could not bring it to the surface of his mind.

"Please take care not to fall," spoke a distinguished voice nearby.

He recognized it immediately. "Why would you care if I did?" he asked, but planted his foot back on the ground.

"Still acting like a child. How unfortunate," sighed England approaching him, yet not invading his personal space.

America frowned and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "It was a serious question," he said, already feeling disappointed. "You don't seem to care much for me at all these days."

England remained silent for a moment. "If you could explain to me why I should, then maybe I will," he said wistfully.

Why did every conversation between them lately seem to go absolutely nowhere? That was, when England would condescend to actually speak to him in the first place. Had wanting independence been such an abominable crime? Would he ever truly forgive him? He did not want these things to matter to him, but they did. His heart started to ache and he clutched his chest out of habit.

"As usual, no answer," whispered England sounding oddly dejected.

The soft, forlorn tone felt like a stab to the gut, and America turned to face him. Forest green eyes darted up to meet his and there was nothing but pain reflected in them. America stepped forward, reached out a hand, but was yanked back by someone he had failed to notice.

"Not so fast, darling," said the stranger wrapping him in a protective embrace. "Don't fall for his manipulation."

Staring at the man, America was confused at first, but he soon recognized who the person holding him was. Though he could not remember how they had met, he knew this man was another version of himself. "Thomas," he said. "I don't think England is trying to manipulate me anymore."

"You are far too trusting for your own good," sighed Thomas tightening his hold slightly.

America started to protest, but he happened to glance at England. The man had visibly paled several shades and was staring at them with an expression somewhere between astonishment and horror. He instantly fell silent because he recognized that look, and England only brought it out when he was truly frightened or disturbed. He looked spooked, and that was saying a lot for a man that routinely spoke to ghosts.

"America, listen to me," England said urgently, his eyes open wide. "You need to get away from that thing."

"What? Why?" asked America shifting marginally. Thomas had a fairly tight hold on him. "Do you even know who he is? He looks just like me with different hair and stuff."

Letting out a shaky breath England backed up a few steps. "He's an alternative you, called a second proxy," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "They are vile creatures and harbingers of disturbance, war, and death."

"Haha, good one," laughed America nervously. "Joke's on me, right? Nations can't die."

"Can't we?" It was a rhetorical question. England tried to compose himself, cleared his throat, straightened his tie. "It's been known to happen more than I let on raising you. Second proxies are a known cause of death."

America's stomach sunk, and he tugged at the arms around him to no avail. "Why didn't you ever tell me that before?!" he exclaimed as a familiar sense of betrayal and anger rose in his chest. "Seems like it was pretty goddamn important information!"

"Don't listen to him," said Thomas digging his fingers into America painfully hard as he struggled. "He's just jealous. A weary old man full of envy and hate, forever pining for the love he lost to his own selfish stupidity."

"America, please don't believe him," pleaded England boldly taking a step towards them. He tried to look stern but was having difficulty masking his concern. "He will fill your head with lies. He will do everything within his power to meet his goals, and I assure you that he does not have your best interests in mind. He means to take your place!"

"Th…that's ridiculous!" sputtered America, but in all honesty it sounded very plausible. "Hey, let me go already! I'm not going to run away!"

Thomas immediately released him, put his arms up, and backed away marginally. "Sure thing, darling. Unlike England here, I know that you're not a liar."

America rubbed his side where Thomas's fingers had no doubt bruised him. He glanced at England's panicked face, and then back to what apparently was his "proxy". Memories started to flash in his mind the longer he stared at him. A terrible sense of dread washed over him. "I'm having a civil war," he spoke quietly in disbelief, "and you…are my enemy."

Thomas remained silent, smiling as his eyes caught the light and flashed red. Before America could retreat to safety, Thomas lunged forward and caught him by his hair, dragging his body back against him. England cried out and a gunshot exploded loudly, making America's ears ring. Jerking his head to the side, Thomas let him watch as England fell to his knees, a bullet hold in the center of his forehead leaking a tiny stream of blood.

"No! Nooo! You bastard!" America shouted and thrashed as England finally slumped to the ground with a thud, eyes wide open and lifeless.

"Relax, Alfred," said Thomas as he yanked his hair, forcing his head back and exposing his neck. He brought the gun barrel up to rest under America's chin, pushed it into the tender skin slightly. "I did you a favor. He was definitely going to make trouble for us in the coming years. Civil war is a great opportunity to invade."

Squeezing his eyes shut, frustrated tears spilled over America's cheeks. He grasped Thomas's jacket so tightly his knuckles turned white. "He's not really dead," he rasped. "It's not that easy to kill us."

"Then when he comes back, I will shoot him again," said Thomas, a maniacal edge creeping into his voice, "and maybe dissect or burn his corpse to delay his revival."

"Nooo, stop, please stop…" whimpered America trying to shake his head. It was considered highly taboo amongst the nations to ever maim their dead bodies intentionally. In the end, it did not prevent their resurrection, but it made it either wretchedly painful to regenerate or took significantly longer to reform their bodies in totality.

"Shhhh…it's okay, darling," soothed Thomas withdrawing the gun and letting go of America's hair in favor of stroking his tear streaked face. "Soon we can merge and none of this silly conflict will matter anymore."

"Merge?" asked America sniffling, still clinging to Thomas's jacket.

"Yes, merge," said Thomas gazing at him fondly, his red eyes hooded and deceptively gentle. He smoothed a hand over America's tousled hair. "This will only hurt for a moment."

"What…"

With inhuman strength, Thomas plunged his hand through his skin, past muscle, and up under his ribcage. His body made sickening squelching and tearing noises as that powerful hand jammed into his thoracic cavity and literally took hold of his heart. America was so stunned he barely registered the searing pain, and he looked down to see his blood gushing from the hole in a torrent around Thomas's arm. He eventually started sliding his arm out and a series of sharp snaps sounded as the vessels holding America's heart gave way.

"Ah, yes," said Thomas reverently cradling the bloody organ to his chest. The warm liquid was leaking all over him and he did not seem to mind. "It's beautiful…perfect. I no longer need the rest of you," he stated dismissively shoving America's gored body away.

Stumbling backwards, America cough up a spatter of blood as his feet caught the edge of the cliff. There was an awful hollow feeling in him that was almost as terrible as the pain, and he wasn't sure if the cause was organ loss or betrayal. He swayed on that precipice briefly, in absolute shock, dismayed and forgotten, before finally dropping into a freefall. Bitter tears stung his eyes as he rapidly descended towards the water, and he idly wondered if the fates would have mercy on him and let him stay dead this time.

* * *

He woke up thrashing and crying. Strong hands clamped onto his arms pinning him down and it sent into a fit of sheer panic. Cursing, yelling, and struggling, he managed to get an arm free and lashed out. It made contact with something solid and the person hunched over him let out a grunt of pain. Suddenly, a weight settled onto his abdomen and his arms were effectively incapacitated on the mattress on either side of his head.

"Alfred, darling, did you have a nightmare?" asked Thomas calmly, the corner of his mouth a bit swollen after being backhanded.

America was too stunned to respond. Instead his face scrunched up and he started sobbing. This alarmed Thomas, who released his arms and started stroking and kissing his face, cooing softly that none of it was real and he was safe now.

"Please let me go!" begged America reaching up to grab Thomas's arms. "I can't stay here! I need to go home!"

"I will," said Thomas sounding eerily serious. Startled blue eyes met his and he felt his heart flutter at how incredible they looked brimming with tears. "Just not yet," he added, watching sadly as America's expression fell into disbelief.

As Thomas settled his body against him more comfortably and started to kiss his mouth and neck, America could not stop the flow of hot tears. A nagging pit of fear was blossoming in his chest, and he wondered just how much of his dream was fantasy and how much was reality. While he liked to make fun of England for his supposed otherworldly friends and belief in ghosts, he knew that the man truly was supernaturally inclined. Distantly, he recalled him trying to explain something called dreamscaping to him in his youth, back when he was more impressionable. England had claimed to be a rare practitioner of the ability, saying if he so desired he could enter and exit a person's dream at will. Had he gone as far as to enter America's dream to warn him? If it really was him, what happened to him when he was shot?

"While you're distracted, I'll go get us some breakfast," said Thomas sliding off of him, and it was only then that America realized he had unconsciously taken hold of him. "There's a washstand over by the chest so you can get cleaned up."

How did he know he was distracted? He knew his body had been reciprocating, even if it was just on instinct. America watched Thomas put on his clothes and leave the room with growing anxiety. On second thought, how had he known to tell him his nightmare wasn't real? It could just be common sense, a lucky guess, or he was too easy a person to read. Still, there was something deeply unsettling about the realization, and he could not shake the feeling that Thomas somehow knew what he was thinking.

He sat up and shook his head clear, scooting to sit on the edge of the bed. The stress and paranoia were getting to him, clouding his reason. If he was going to survive this encounter, he needed to keep his wits about him. He walked over to the washstand, poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, took up a cloth, and started to clean all of the sticky, dried up fluids from his body, including the ones leaking out of his behind. It took a little while and he was happy that there was also soap present to help rid himself of Thomas's scent. Strangely, it was different than his own.

When Thomas reentered the room with a large wooden tray full of food, America had just finished. He set it on the table by the windows and America wandered over. Much to his delight, Thomas handed him a set of neatly folded, clean clothes.

"Your old clothes weren't salvageable, but you can have a set of mine," said Thomas smiling sweetly.

"Thanks," said America a little morosely. He had really loved the coat that had probably been discarded by now. He distracted himself by getting dressed, happy to finally be clothed once again.

"I'm sorry, darling," said Thomas sitting down. "Come on, let's eat. We can go for a walk afterwards. Some fresh air will cheer you up and the weather is perfect."

Getting the chance to go outside did sound nice, and America's mood lifted slightly. He managed a small smile as he sat down opposite of Thomas and began to eat.

* * *

Canada had been hearing for a little while now that civil war was brewing in America, and finally decided a visit was overdue since the rumors were getting worse. England and France had recently warned –and threatened- him to stay out of all affairs concerning his brash and careless southern neighbor, but they had said nothing of visiting out of personal concern. He arrived at his New York City house to find it quite empty, so naturally the next place to check was Washington. He was met on the way, and his small party was promptly escorted directly to the Executive Mansion. In a whirlwind of haste his men were rushed off in one direction and he was secreted away with a strong man at each side in the other. His weapons had already been confiscated, and they passed several guards as they entered into the East sitting hall. The men saw him into the room and lingered inside the doors after shutting them.

Gazing around disorientated, Canada's eyes eventually fell on a tall, stately man and he instantly knew who it was. He smiled warmly at him as he approached tentatively, and extended a hand when Canada was close enough to shake it. His grip was firm and confident as he gave the customary gesture, politely withdrawing when done and maintaining eye contact, which quite frankly left Canada a little awestruck.

"President Lincoln, it's an honor to meet you!" said Canada smiling broadly. He had been hearing nothing but good news about the new American president, and was excited to get the chance to personally interact with him. One thing he had heard was definitely true. The man was very tall, even compared to his own height of six feet.

"It's an honor to meet you as well, Canada," said President Lincoln before gesturing to a chair. "Please, have a seat."

Canada stuttered out a thank you and promptly sat down. He waited as the president seated himself on a chair opposite him. His movements were very fluid and controlled. "So…um…America…"

"Is that why you have come to visit?" asked Lincoln keeping his tone light. "To inquire of America's well being? Or do you have other news to share?"

Canada paused, his smile fading. "I'm worried about him," he said twiddling his thumbs and glancing away briefly. "I've heard rumors about what's been going on here. Is it true you're on the verge of civil war?"

The president smiled, almost sadly. "Son, we are no longer on the verge," he said. "We are having a civil war, and America has gone missing."

Canada felt his stomach churn and his heart speed up at the sudden and frank statement. It dropped on him like a weight and he struggled to breathe evenly. "What? Was he…captured?" he asked as his hands began to tremble.

"We're not actually sure," said Lincoln with a weary sigh. "He insisted on seeing Fort Sumter after we lost it, so I reluctantly let him go with a team of skilled men. I also sent some men to discreetly trail them in case something went wrong. I have received word that his men were ambushed, and many were killed. America's body was not among the corpses so I think it's safe to assume he was captured by the Confederacy."

"Why did you let him go in the first place?!" exclaimed Canada jerking forward on his seat, eyes finally going wide. He immediately regretted his outburst and started sputtering apologies.

"No, no…it's fine. You're right to be upset," said Lincoln looking apologetic himself. "I figured if I denied him, he would just find a way to do it behind my back, and probably with very little preparation and no proper guard. By allowing him to go I could at least track him."

"I'll go look for him!" declared Canada nearly edging off of his chair in anticipation. "I know I can find him!"

"I appreciate the offer, truly I do," said Lincoln. He paused to look out the windows before returning his sharp gray eyes to Canada. "I'm not sure if England would appreciate it, though. I don't want to make trouble for you, and it would certainly get back to him if you assisted us in this matter."

"Then…what do we do?" asked Canada weakly as he practically deflated back into his seat.

"I have an idea," said Lincoln, his smile returning. "It involves a guest that arrived shortly before you did. Would you mind if I invited him to join us?"

"Of course, go ahead," agreed Canada.

Lincoln made a hand gesture towards the men standing guard and they opened the doors. Both he and Canada stood to greet the tall man that walked into the room, long scarf trailing behind him. He smiled pleasantly as he usually did in all the time Canada had known him.

"Russia! What are you doing here?" blurted out Canada before any formal introduction could be made.

"I come bearing good news from my home," he said stopping before the president, their eyes meeting at a level height, and shaking his hand civilly. "But first, it is so very good to meet you, President Lincoln. I have heard you are highly admired by the people, and I wish you luck in your new presidency."

"Thank you. I think that I will need it. It is very nice to meet you as well, Russia," said Lincoln internally marveling at Russia's tall stature. It wasn't often that a man could look him in the eyes without gazing up. "How does Tsar Alexander II fare?"

"He is well, thank you," answered Russia sitting down next to Canada after the president gestured for him to do so. "Where is America? I mean to share my news with him first, if possible." He did not fail to notice Canada shifting uncomfortably at the mention of his neighbor's name.

"I'm afraid that is not possible at the moment," said Lincoln keeping his expression intentionally blank. "Our great nation is now officially having a civil war, and we believe that America has been taken captive by the Confederacy."

To Russia's credit, the only indication that he was surprised was a slight inclination of his eyebrows. "That is very…unfortunate. On both accounts," he said trying not to clench his teeth.

Lincoln leaned forward in his seat and lowered his voice. "If you truly wish to give America your news personally, I have a proposition for you."

"Go on. I'm listening," said Russia also leaning forward.

Canada listened intently as they whispered their highly secret plans to each other. He noticed as they conversed that Russia's hands were gripping his long coat extremely tightly. Perhaps he was more worried than he was letting on. He knew the relations between his and America's countries had been going well for a while now, but this was the first time he had witnessed it so candidly. When they were done, everyone stood up, shook hands again.

"If you will excuse me, I have some arrangements to make now that we have figured out the details," said Lincoln urgently. "I know your journey was long, Russia. Please, get some rest before you embark once again. And Canada, you are welcome to stay as long as you like as well. My men will show you to your rooms." That being said he strode out of the room with determination.

"Hmm…I think I like this new president very much!" hummed Russia with a small smile as he and Canada left the room as well. The men led the way to their respective rooms.

"Me too," agreed Canada. "Thank you, Russia," he added quietly.

"What are you thanking me for?" inquired Russia tossing him a confused look as they walked.

"For agreeing to save him," said Canada, then he frowned. "I…I wanted to do it, but I can't…"

"Oh my, how unnecessary," laughed Russia causing Canada to now be the one to look confused. "I agreed to go look for him, but whatever makes you think America truly needs saving?"

Canada remained silent for a moment pondering the question. "I think maybe you're giving Alfred a little too much credit there," he finally spoke. "He's pretty good at getting himself into trouble, as I'm sure you well know."

"Of course, but he's also equally good at getting himself out of trouble, yes?" asked Russia. "He's very strong. Maybe you should try to give him a little more credit, especially now."

"Yes…I suppose you have some good points there," said Canada. Honestly, he wasn't sure if Russia was saying those things out of truth or to ease his worry. Either way it did not really matter, because the fact he had agreed to attempt to find America was a huge relief in itself. He knew he was incredibly strong, but he had an intuition that America had gotten himself into a terrible bind this time, something that wasn't easy to muscle your way out of.

"Be at ease," said Russia before he stopped at the door to his appointed room. He turned his back to Canada so his expression could not be discerned. "I will find him, and I will bring him back safe."

The door to the room shut behind the retreating nation, and Canada stared at it for a heartbeat before being ushered further down the hall. For all of his nonchalance, Russia had sounded downright resolute as he had spoken just then. He sighed in relief.

* * *

Russia tugged at his foreign clothing, trying to adjust them more comfortably on his frame. Sadly, his hand closed around empty air as he sought to tug at his scarf. It had been left behind as it would make him stand out. He hoped that his "disguise" helped him blend in, but naturally if he spoke anyone would know he was not an American. The plan allowed for this however. Pulling his hat down a bit he glanced at his lone companion also on horseback next to him. He returned the glance, but only with a sideways movement of his eyes. The man, introduced simply as John, was not friendly or talkative, and that suited him just fine.

It was a fairly elaborate plan for being tossed together so quickly, but Russia suspected the president had been planning it well before he knew of his arrival. He just happened to be the last puzzle piece, and extra insurance that it would succeed. There were series of checkpoints they were to pass through on the way south, to keep in touch with a network of informants that had sworn loyalty to the admirable president. The checkpoints were private residences and businesses, which only helped the illusion that they were merely travelers looking for opportunity. They had also told them some ludicrous back story to tell people if they asked, but since most of their encounters would be with people in on the plan, he did not think it would be very necessary.

As they rode in relative silence, and off the beaten path, Russia's mind wandered. He had given Canada a reassuring little talk about how he should have faith in America, and truly he did believe the man would not go down easily, but in all honesty he was worried sick. He knew implicitly what civil war meant to a nation, and he had a fairly good idea what was awaiting him when he found America. Most of the plan hinged on him remaining as unnoticed as possible and utilizing the element of surprise. Since his arrival had not been announced there was a chance it could work, but he was already formulating actions to take if it failed. His hands tightened on the reigns of his horse. One thing was for certain, even if it meant taking drastic measures; he would definitely find America and bring him home, dead or alive. Nations healed and revived, and since he had fallen into the wrong hands, Russia would return him to the right ones. All the better that he got to pass him through his own first.

* * *

Notes: This chapter is significantly darker, but I really want to stress how being around Thomas is soothing but at the same time very disturbing to America. Also I chose the term "second proxy" for the 2p's because there is no such thing as a "2nd player" back then. It kind of makes sense and kind of doesn't? I don't know, I just love the word "proxy". There will be more RusAme interaction next chapter. Thank you for reading and comments are appreciated! Please keep them constructive, though.


	3. A Strangely Isolated Place

Notes: Thomas = 2p America & Confederate America / second proxy = 2p

Please take note that this story includes real historical figures portrayed in a fictional manner.

* * *

Ch 3: A Strangely Isolated Place

Russia remembered their last encounter affectionately and in provocative detail. The year had been 1857, and the American shipbuilders had finally begun construction of war ships for the Russian Navy in New York. Though not necessary, he had come to personally witness it. At the time he had been nearly a year free of war and feeling relieved, if not a little worse for the wear. More than anything else, it had provided him with an excellent excuse to get his hands all over America and further cultivate their growing relationship. The tsar had had no objections, practically shoving him out the door with a knowing smile.

It had taken a considerable amount of self control to restrain himself while they conducted their greetings, met officials, and toured the shipyards. The blush that had dusted over America's lovely golden skin when he had caught Russia staring at him with obvious intent had been a thing of pure beauty. He had not looked away but instead stared back warmly and openly, with those startling blue eyes, as the sea breeze gently tousled his blond hair. Frankly, it was simple moments between them exactly like that that reminded Russia why he was so enamored with the young nation.

He had stayed as long as permitted, which happened to be about a month. They had spent that precious time enthralled with each other, much like young lovers at the height of obsession. Naturally, their interactions in public had been appropriate, but America had found every opportunity imaginable to sneak off and secret away with Russia. In hindsight it had occurred to him that their actions had probably been a bit more obvious than they had realized, yet no one had seemed to pay it any mind. It had been exciting, sensual, and invigorating, as it always was between them. Never had he had such an enthusiastic and willing bedfellow. For the first time in his long life, he felt like he was truly desired, and it filled him with a sense of wonder.

It was the resurgence of memories from that pleasant shared time with America that had started to fill him with a yearning that refused to abate or be ignored. He had done his best in the past four years to repress his affections in favor of taking care of his war ravaged home, and getting to know his new tsar better. It turned out that he much liked Tsar Alexander II and had high hopes for him. He had quickly noticed Russia's discomfort, and gently inquired at regular intervals what was causing it until Russia confessed. Of course, he merely told him that he dearly missed a friend, never definitively placing a name on said friend. Still, Russia suspected the tsar knew exactly of whom he spoke with his eyes no doubt tender and sentimental.

The vivid memories also haunted his dreams, in the best way possible. The scenarios replayed in his subconscious mind over and over again, ranging from subdued conversation to explicit sex, and everything in between. The milder dreams left him in a state of mournful longing, and the racier ones left his body painfully aroused and not easily satisfied. He craved the attention America had lavished on him to the point everything –especially his heart- ached. These emotions were all fairly new and somewhat frightening, but he relished in them all the same.

During the entire voyage to see his too-long lost lover he had practically vibrated with anticipation. It had been long, exhausting, and fraught with expectation. Words could not have adequately described the feeling that overtook him when he heard America had been taken captive. The first impulsive thought that had come to mind was that they would not be able to touch each other, and that had filled him with a sudden, profound disappointment. The next thought had been a sickening realization that it was more than likely a second proxy that held America captive, though he had not shared that assumption with the others. Graciously, he had been given an offer to go find America, which was good because he would have attempted to do it either way.

He and his travel companion, John, were six days into their journey south. They were currently staying the night in the moderately sized house of one of their informants. They had made excellent time, and John informed him they were very close to the South Carolina border. Many clues were leading them to a few plantations in South Carolina as possible locations where America may be. Russia knew they were close. He could feel it in his core, and wondered if there was some truth to the old world belief that bonding with another nation gave you a sixth sense towards them. Or maybe he was just deluding himself to ease his distressed state. Sadly, the latter was more likely, but he remained cautiously optimistic.

Sighing, he shifted uncomfortably on the guest bed and gazed out the window at the darkening sky. Clouds were rolling in swiftly and the sun had disappeared behind the trees recently as it set. Lightening started to flash sporadically accompanied by rolling thunder, and he was grateful they were already done riding for the day. The rain soon came, first in a light drizzle and building up to pelting sheets. Thankfully, the din of noise the storm created lulled his tense and nervous body to sleep. His slumber that night was mercifully dreamless.

* * *

The nightmares continued. Every night. For six nights in a row. America's sense of foreboding increased as each day dragged by, each dream transforming into some terrifying, horror-filled illusion. Logically, he knew that the graphic scenarios playing out in his sleeping mind were fictitious and most likely stress induced. That realization was particularly disheartening because it dispelled his theory of England dreamscaping with him. The dreams never failed to leave him with a lingering feeling of general malaise, and by the fourth day he had opted to start sleeping as little as possible to avoid them. Unfortunately, he was unable to accomplish that goal and eventually fell asleep at some early hour in the morning. His best attempt had left him awake at sunrise, only to sleep through most of the remaining morning.

As the sun set on the seventh day, America sat on the porch nursing a cold cup of coffee, staring blankly past the Doric columns of the house. The yard was vast and full of mature oak trees with Spanish moss hanging from their limbs, swaying delicately in the breeze. It really was a beautiful property and he had often wondered where the original owners had gone. He knew there were slaves around, since he had seen them at the cook house, wash house, and even occasionally the main house. A few of them could possibly be indentured servants, but he highly doubted it. Soldiers also appeared at least once a day and spoke to Thomas, but never more than a couple at a time, and they never lingered. The plantation seemed to exist outside of time, and he considered it a strangely isolated place.

Sometimes escaping crossed his mind, but he found himself entirely too fatigued and mentally disjointed to actually formulate any coherent plans. However, that did not deter him from staring longingly at the dense forest beyond and daydream about vanishing into it. Between the nightmares, lack of sleep, and Thomas's insatiable sexual appetite he felt like he barely had a chance to think at all. His mind had descended into a permanent fog, which seemed bizarre since he had weathered worse conditions in the past with clarity.

His eyelids started to droop and he shook his head, trying to keep them open. Morosely, he wondered who would be tormenting him when he finally did succumb to his exhaustion. Many friends had come to visit his nightmares and subject him to ungodly horrors, always luring him in with a false sense of security and soothing lies. Thomas was always there. Even if he did not participate in the torture, he would watch, and make sure that his presence was known. Was this what it felt like when a proxy came into existence? Was it some sort of side effect of his psyche struggling to cope with the split? Was it even a split to begin with? Was it something far more complex? Would it eventually drive him insane? Those important questions had occurred to him during rare moments of lucidity.

Despite his obvious mental deterioration, Thomas continued to treat him kindly and graciously. He still imposed his selfish desires on him whenever he saw fit, regardless of America's mood, but otherwise was generally amiable. He also seemed completely unchanged by their interactions, which irritated America immensely. Why was he the only one being made to suffer this condition? If anything, Thomas should be the one that was afflicted. He was the interloper. Just as his eyes started to once again close, the sound of heavy boots on wood jarred him back to awareness.

"Alfred," said Thomas laying a hand on his shoulder firmly. "Are you alright?"

America wanted to swat the hand away, but that would waste precious energy. He detested that annoyingly kind and loving tone Thomas used whenever addressing him. "I'm fine," he lied, trying to keep the acidity out of his tone.

Thomas gave a noncommittal hum and moved around to kneel in front of the chair America sat on. He ignored the scowl he received as he plucked the cup from America's hands and set it aside. "It's getting late. Let's go to bed," he said as he started massaging America's thighs absently.

When his drowsy body immediately started to stir and react to the unwanted touches, America felt like crying. But that too would waste too much energy. At that point he no longer cared about masking his emotions, so he was sure a dejected expression was displaying clearly on his face. Maybe a bit of a grimace and touch of trepidation as well.

"Oh, please don't look at me with such a gloomy face, my love," said Thomas smirking and having the couth to sound slightly apologetic. Very slightly. "If you want, I'll let you be on top tonight. That should be fun, right? You get to fuck me, any way you want."

America regarded him suspiciously as the information slowly processed. He opened his mouth to respond, but a loud clap of thunder cut him off. Startled, he turned wide eyes to the sky he could see beyond the canopy of trees. Sure enough, a thunderstorm was rolling in, lightening darting and dancing through the clouds. He frowned feeling as if the heavens themselves were mocking him.

"That looks like a nasty storm," said Thomas, then gave an impressed whistle at the amount of lightening. Without asking again, he simply hauled America to his feet and dragged him stumbling back inside the house.

By the time they made it to the bedroom, America was much more awake and considerably angrier. He spun Thomas around, pinned him to the wall with his body, and started to kiss him harshly. Rain started pouring and more thunder sounded as he ripped Thomas's shirt off roughly, tearing the fabric in his haste, and then bit and scratched at the exposed flesh until he drew blood. He hated that he met no resistance to his vicious actions. He hated that his body was instantly responsive to even the slightest caress from that man. He hated his grace and charm. He hated that he treated him so well yet stood for everything he was opposed to.

With a growl, he suddenly grasped Thomas by the hair and yanked him over to the bed, bending him over the side to rest on his stomach. He wasted no time in jerking Thomas's pants down, wetting his fingers in his mouth, and jamming them inside his entrance carelessly. Thomas gasped before pushing back against his probing fingers moaning softly, or maybe the rain was too loud to hear him properly. Who could possibly like this kind of treatment? America leaned over his back and bit the area between his neck and shoulder until warm liquid bubbled up into his mouth. This action elicited another moan from Thomas as he started to grind against the bed.

It was not the first time America had been allowed to penetrate Thomas, but it was certainly the most violent and forceful. He genuinely figured that Thomas would never treat him so poorly, and that sent him into a new fit of frustrated aggravation. He was slipping into the role of a villain and he truly had nobody to blame but himself. Surely, his actions had to be justified, though. Nations did not treat their enemies kindly. That line of reasoning did not sit well with him, but his body was achingly aroused despite his resentment.

Still working his fingers into Thomas knuckle deep, he fumbled his pants open and tugged them down just enough to free his erection from its confines. He pulled his fingers free and quickly slicked his cock with spit before starting to push the head in. His entire length sunk into Thomas with ease and he was disappointed his intended rough entry never happened, which ultimately left him wondering if Thomas had planned the whole encounter and prepared himself accordingly. Setting a rapid pace, he made sure to be as harsh as possible as he thrust relentlessly. Unfortunately, it seemed to be having the opposite of its intended effect.

Discouraged and irritated, America curled his fingers into Thomas's hair and tugged it sharply. Thomas let out a hiss as one of his hands groped blindly behind him to grip at America's thigh, trying to pull him impossibly closer. All of the negative emotions surging through America were quickly transforming into blind lust as he hammered away what little energy he had. He released Thomas's hair in favor of grasping his hips to steady him during the powerful thrusts.

"Ah! Alfred…bite me again!" cried out Thomas suddenly, his voice almost swallowed by the sound of the rainstorm.

Lightning struck and thunder sounded as America obliged Thomas with a bite to the tender flesh of his neck. He wondered if the thunder had been happening the whole time and he had not noticed, too wrapped up in his cruelty. The bite was less severe this time, but he made sure to sink his teeth in just enough to draw a slight amount of blood. Why did it taste so good? He wanted more of it, but was drawn away from that thought by Thomas shuddering beneath him. They were both close, which was a relief because America did not think he could maintain the pace much longer. He suddenly became aware of an increasing tightness in his chest and was having difficulty catching his breath.

Thomas's face was turned to the side and resting on the bed, dark auburn hair splayed on the covers, eyes shut, and mouth parted to let out panting breaths. As if sensing America's eyes on him, he cracked open an eye and returned the gaze briefly. It soon slid shut and America felt his muscles clenching around his cock. He gasped at the sensation it sent through his body, which felt similar to the electrical jolts from their first meeting. It was borderline painful, but the pressure was building regardless. He gave a couple more deep thrusts and Thomas let out a series of curses and sighs as he came grinding himself against the mattress.

America's vision abruptly went white, intense pleasure and pain vying with each other as he clung to Thomas. His hands slipped on the sweaty skin beneath him, desperately opening and closing as he soared to the peak of his orgasm, feeling the last of his strength pulse out of him at an alarming rate. He thought he heard his voice crying out, he wasn't quite sure. As he slumped over Thomas, frantically gulping in air, his sight came back momentarily only to start darkening at the edges. Why did it hurt so much this time? His body gave one last weak tremble of pleasure somewhat warding off the pain, and he carefully pulled out of Thomas before the world slipped completely into darkness.

* * *

He was standing outside, and judging by the trees and plants surrounding him he was somewhere northern, probably in his homeland. In his observation, America caught sight of a person standing in the slight distance and his heart skipped a beat. The man's back was facing him, and he traced his eyes down its familiar elegant lines underneath the long, flowing coat, before skimming them back up to the wavy, sand colored hair. He knew to whom it belonged, and his heart rejoiced at the recognition. It had been a little while since they had last seen each other and that person had barely left his mind for long as the years passed.

"Ivan!" he called out as he jogged towards the man, using his chosen name as a clear sign of affection.

Russia turned his head, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder, and his eyes widened at the awareness of who was approaching him. He managed to snap his body around in just enough time to catch America as he lunged at him. Russia offered no verbal greeting, but wrapped his arms possessively around America and nuzzled against his hair with a sigh. Despite knowing something he could not recall was terribly wrong, America felt safe and happy at that moment. As they clung to each other, recent disjointed memories started to seep into his mind piece by piece, painting a disturbing and incomplete picture.

"What is the matter, Alik?" asked Russia smoothing a hand over America's hair. "You're trembling."

America shook his head, laughed, tightened his grip on Russia. He was thankful he could not hurt him with his abnormal strength, because in his distressed state he was not taking care to be gentle. "Nothing will be the matter if you keep holding me," he said, his voice wavering.

"I would gladly do so, but you have me very concerned," said Russia softly as he continued to stroke America's hair. He eventually forced them apart slightly to gaze down at his companion. "Please, tell me what is bothering you."

Fidgeting, America glanced away several times, his hands finally settling to dig into Russia's skin through his coat. "Someone wants to kill me," he blurted out suddenly. "A person that's just like me…but different."

Russia furrowed his brow as he regarded him skeptically. "America, you know that we are practically immortal, yes?" he said in a puzzled tone. "And I do not understand how this person can be just like you. We are very unique creatures."

"This person is like us! That's why it's so frightening!" said America frantically, his voice laced with desperation. "You have to help me," he whispered in fear they may be overheard. "I was alone with him and…he's been doing things to me…"

"What kind of things?" asked Russia still looking decently worried.

"Well…um…" America fell silent as he contemplated whether to tell Russia what little truth he could discern from his vague memories. He concluded that it may make Russia jealous, but perhaps that was a good thing if it riled him to his aid. "He…forces himself on me." The words felt bitter as they left his mouth.

Russia froze, his fingers curling to grip America harshly in his shock. His eyebrows had inclined slightly in his characteristic mannerism of being surprised, only to lower and accompany his deep frown. "Do you mean that you have sex with this person? The person that is just like you?" he asked, his voice low and flat.

"Not by choice! He forces me to!" said America as violet eyes bore into his own. The look swirling in their depths was something he had never seen in them before, and it set off a fear response even if he could not identify it.

"You have betrayed me," said Russia quietly as he slid a hand up to grab America's jaw roughly.

He meant to protest, but was struck silent by Russia's amethyst irises rapidly bleeding red as he stared into them. The trees around them started to blacken as their leaves shriveled and fell away, and the lush, green grass beneath their feet rotted into a scorched, barren field. Dirt and dust whipped around them and the sky grew heavy with dark clouds. With awful, tremendous force, Russia lifted him up by his jaw and slammed his body against the ground. The impact jarred him, knocking the air out of his lungs in a rush.

"If you wanted to be with someone else, you should have told me, solnyshko," said Russia in a mockingly cheerful tone as he straddled America's waist and placed his hands on the chest beneath him. "It's not nice to take advantage of my kindness and sneak around behind my back." As he spoke, he slowly slid his hands up until they closed firmly around America's neck.

"Wait! Listen, I…" America gagged as the hands around his windpipe started to squeeze and crush. He clawed at the hands and struggled with all of his might, but Russia's strength was comparable to his own. Seconds ticked by and felt like hours as his thrashing only aided in his suffocation.

"Hey, now… maybe you should listen to what he has to say," called a voice he recognized. Thomas suddenly appeared behind Russia and draped himself over his back lazily. "Come on, let him go before he dies," he said prying Russia's hands loose with unexpected ease.

America drew in deep, gasping breaths and his throat and lungs burned with relief. After a short coughing fit, he rubbed his sore neck as his vision slowly came back into focus. He blearily blinked up at his lover and enemy. It was beyond tragic that his lover had been the one trying to kill him and his enemy had been the one to save him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I think it's pretty obvious why Russia is acting this way," sighed Thomas shaking his head. "I would be upset too if you were unfaithful to me."

A violent wave of indignation rolled through America and he bucked up abruptly, tossing both men off of him. He stumbled to his feet, staggered a little in dizziness as his blood pressure regulated. "You both have no right to treat me this way!" he shouted watching as they both deliberately stood up. "I didn't do anything wrong!" he added, but somehow felt as if the declaration was a lie.

Thomas snorted. "Of course you didn't! You are eternally innocent, a righteous martyr, a hero of the people!" he bellowed sarcastically. "Surely, the almighty Alfred can do no wrong! He is the paragon of liberty and justice! Beloved by all that meet him!"

America wanted to look away as Thomas descended into a fit of laughter, nearly doubling over in his mirth. From what he could remember, he was fairly certain Thomas had never spoken to him so derisively before. He was at a loss for words and irrationally hoped that some forgiving sanity still resided within Russia. It was his only chance at survival.

"How can you even take this kid seriously?" asked Thomas to Russia, elbowing the larger man lightly. "He's so naïve and arrogant. I find it charming, but it must get on your nerves."

Russia had not broken eye contact with America since he had stood up, and his gaze was eerily blank the entire time. "I take him seriously," he answered. "I don't really have much of a choice in the matter. It is merely by my leader's orders that I grow close to this child. It suits our ambitions. If they were not so insistent on improving our relations, I would not waste my time on him."

The blunt statements hit him soundly in the heart and hurt more than being choked or shot. Russia's words confirmed his fears from early on in their establishment of diplomatic relations. He had often pondered whether Russia was truly interested in him as a person and nation, or if he was being forced into the role and was nonchalantly going along with it. He could not help the sorrowful tears that started to fall from his eyes unbidden.

"That can't be true," said America no longer able to hold onto his scowl. The numerous times they had shared their thoughts and bodies so intimately couldn't possibly all be an act. Yet he honestly was young and inexperienced in such matters. It was within the realm of possibility that Russia had been playing him for a fool all along, regardless of how he professed feelings of true affection.

"Oh, look…you made him sad," said Thomas placing a hand on his hip and turning to glare disapprovingly at Russia. "You know I hate it when Alfred is sad. Be a darling and go make it better."

Russia nodded and started advancing on America. The sense of dread that flooded his body was sickening and he steeled himself to it, holding his ground. Reminding himself that he was a powerful nation and a repository of strength gave him very little confidence. Predictably, Russia threw out a couple well-aimed blows that landed, one to the ribs and one to the gut. He always had been fond of center mass hits during fights. A definite no-nonsense attitude. While painful, they weren't anywhere near incapacitating, and America was having trouble convincing himself to hit back.

"Why aren't you retaliating?" asked Russia, pausing his assault.

America foolishly wanted to smile at what he thought was a tone of concern and a slight softening of those hard, red eyes. He forced his hands protecting his sore abdomen to make fists and raised them in defense. He darted at Russia, planted his foot firmly on the black earth below, and swung a braced elbow into his midsection. The blow took him somewhat by surprise and sent him soaring away, which gave America the perfect opportunity to rush Thomas.

He did not initially hit him, choosing to tackle Thomas to the ground instead. America put all of his weight into the attack and heard the man beneath him gasp as his body and head hit the unforgiving ground hard. Reeling back he started punching him recklessly in the face, that horrible face that looked just like his. Maybe he could disfigure it enough that nobody would be able to tell they shared it. Before he could land too many strikes, Thomas managed to snatch his wrists and halt his arm's movements. He laughed a little letting out a spatter of blood, and it definitely looked like his nose was broken.

"Christ, that hurts," Thomas said wincing, then smiled up at America almost kindly. "I can't allow this to continue."

America frowned down at him, puzzled by his cryptic choice of words as he feebly strained against the crushing hold on his wrists. A sharp, searing pain suddenly blossomed in his back moving into his chest, and he jerked his arms involuntarily hard at the unpleasant sensation, finally freeing them. Looking down, he saw Russia's arm snake its way around his torso and it gently pulled him back. His eyes grew impossibly wide as he watched a slightly curved steel blade emerge through the front of his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was nearly impossible to run a man through the chest with a sword, but surely it was a testament to Russia's immense strength. The blade slowly slid through muscles, organs, membranes, vessels, and bone all the same as it passed through him.

"There, there, dorogoy," said Russia soothingly, his lips brushing against America's ear as he stilled his sword. "Surely this will absolve you of your sins."

America drew in an agonizing breath and coughed up some bright red blood onto Russia's arm. Part of him wanted to rage and throw a fit before his inevitable demise -he knew he had probably just enough time and energy for it- but a bigger part of him simply wanted to resign and die in the arms of the man he loved. As a nation, he tended to shy away from the concept of love in general, as it almost always seemed tragically doomed in their cases. Yet despite his best efforts, he usually felt it very deeply and was certain he had fallen head over heels for Russia a while ago. He leaned his head back to rest on Russia's shoulder and took another shallow, wet breath.

He tried to tell Russia how he felt. He parted his lips, tried to push the air out of his rapidly failing lungs, and brought a shaking hand up to grasp at soft, pale hair. Russia may not reciprocate the sentiment, but it was what he wanted to do with his final moments, even if he was damned to continue reanimating. Unfortunately and regrettably, no words made it from his mouth as the world faded away.

* * *

Notes: I am still trying to get used to the submission process on here... Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! I will do my best to keep updates regular, but school has been very demanding lately. Thank you for reading and comments are always appreciated! Please try to keep them constructive!


	4. A Long Way to Fall

Notes: Thomas = 2p America & Confederate America / second proxy = 2p

Please take note that this story includes real historical figures portrayed in a fictional manner.

* * *

Ch 4: A Long Way to Fall

Russia awoke in an apprehensive mood, and John rushed them through their morning preparations, as he normally did. Though the man did not readily display any outward emotion, Russia could swear he was acting agitated. He did not even bother asking him if anything was wrong because truthfully just about everything felt wrong. All of the tension during the journey was building to an imminent peak, and Russia was so fraught with anxiety he could barely eat. They conversed briefly with their hosts, who told them of their next informant past the South Carolina border. Offering thanks, they quietly disembarked.

They rode in their usual silence, and both men were admittedly growing weary, the monotony of the passing landscapes all blending together. The vaguest of rumors guided them and it offered Russia little comfort to know how little they truly had to rely on. Still, his skin felt like it was prickling with invisible electricity, akin to the unsettling feeling he got when he felt like he was being watched by the old ghosts that haunted his palace. As they went about their usual daily routine, the feeling persisted despite both men's failure to notice anyone actually spying on them. It was disconcerting to say the least and Russia longed for the shelter of their next informant's house.

"How close are we?" asked Russia adjusting the handkerchief tied around his neck. It was a poor replacement for his beloved scarf, but he did not want to bare his scarred flesh to prying eyes.

"Close," answered John simply from his position slightly ahead of Russia. "Should arrive within the hour."

Russia let out a thankful sigh, even if it was a little odd that they would be arriving at the informant earlier than was average for them. After a little thought, he trotted his horse up beside John and voiced his concern.

"Why are we arriving to this place earlier?"

John shrugged in response only sparing his riding companion the briefest of glances. "It just worked out that way, I suppose."

"Perhaps we should keep traveling after we get the information," said Russia. "It seems like a waste to stop so soon when there is still daylight to be had."

John remained silent for a minute, his chiseled features seeming sharper when he frowned in contemplation. "Let's see how it goes and where the next stop is before we make any decisions," he said.

"Yes…that would be wise," agreed Russia reluctantly.

Too many times to count he had pondered ditching John in favor of traveling unhindered, but it would be a rash and foolish move on his part. He did not understand the lay of the land as well as John and really had no idea where the informants were located. He knew they were making good time and the journey so far had been relatively short. That knowledge did not make it any easier to breathe well or relax. A weight had settled onto his chest in the form of something that felt suspiciously like heartache. It figured that America could plunge the fickle organ into such a woeful state.

Russia's hands tightened on the reins and he willed his racing thoughts to cease. He had been alive long enough to recognize the feeling weighing down on him, and though he could not put the emotion to name, he knew it was a precursor to tragedy. Desperately, he hoped that he was merely being overly paranoid, but realistically he was aware of how volatile and unpredictable a second proxy could be. Either way, it was certainly going to be a challenge.

* * *

America had woken up in the middle of the night, promptly after his nightmare involving Russia, and had sobbed until he roused Thomas. He had tried smacking the man away from him, curling into a fetal position in an attempt at self comfort. Thomas had stubbornly persisted in soothing him, and while his actions did not make America feel any less disturbed, he was able to fall back to sleep.

The second time he woke, there was morning sunlight spilling into the room and Thomas was gone. The strange facts that he was alone and had not had a second nightmare registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but he was too tired and happy to have some solitude. He stretched out on the bed and drifted in and out of sleep for a while.

At some point he decided to stay awake, even though he still felt fairly tired. He sat up in the tangled mess of covers, yawned, and stretched languidly. It felt beyond amazing to wake up leisurely and alone. Crawling out of the bed, he shuffled to the window, smoothing his tousled hair. Thomas was in the yard talking with a couple of his soldiers, but they were too far away for America to hear what they were saying. However, he could tell by the wild hand gestures and body language that the soldiers were either upset or agitated. Eventually, Thomas seemed to placate them, and gave them reassuring claps on the shoulders before sending them away.

He turned his attention from the window and went to the wardrobe to find some clean clothes. As he got dressed, he noticed that his body had been cleaned of any fluids it accumulated from the prior night, probably thanks to Thomas. Such a considerate captor. With a sigh, he tugged on his boots and trudged downstairs intent on finding some food.

As he walked past the dining room, he noticed there was food set out on the table. Another one of Thomas's considerations. The man was really living up to the standard of Southern hospitality, he thought dryly. He sat down at the table and began to eat mechanically. The extra sleep had made him feel a little less neurotic but certainly not normal.

"Oh, Alfred! You woke up," said Thomas startling America as he approached him from behind. "Sorry I wasn't there, but since you passed out last night I wanted to let you get as much rest as possible."

America flinched as a hand rested on his shoulder and kept staring out the window, refusing to look at Thomas. "It was really nice. I wouldn't mind waking up alone every morning," he said mournfully.

Thomas withdrew his hand and moved it to grip America's chin and force his head towards him as he leaned down. "I understand that you're stressed, but do you have to be so mean to me?" he asked with a pained expression. "I've treated you exceptionally well, and I've not harmed you. I'm trying very hard to earn your love."

The most horrifying part of the words spoken was the fact that America knew they were serious. In any other situation, he would work the angle, lie through his teeth to get the upper hand, use his opponent's weakness against him. In his current situation, he felt utterly lost, adrift in a sea of useless pride and defiance. Unfortunately, the longer he was lost, the angrier he grew. He had always hated that aspect of his personality, but he also hated that he was often left in the dark in regard to certain other nations. And now he was being left in the dark by himself. What cruel irony.

"Well? Are you going to answer me?" asked Thomas softly before pressing a couple brief kisses to America's parted, silent lips. "Tell me. What does a person have to do to earn your love? For you, I'd be willing to try just about anything."

America let out a shaky breath and licked his lips, his body screaming at him to pull Thomas closer. He ignored it. "Let me go," he whispered. He had so much more to say, but it was not very nice so he omitted it.

Thomas released his face with a sigh and laughed. It sounded sad. "Would that really work?" he said resting his hands on the table and staring out the window with a wistful expression. "I…I'm not sure you would willingly come back to me. It seems a lot safer of a bet to keep you by my side until you learn to love me."

"But you said you would let me go!" shouted America, standing up so abruptly his chair clattered to the floor.

"I did say that," said Thomas moving towards America until they were practically touching chests, "but…I changed my mind."

The nagging pit of worry blossomed into full-blown panic and hopelessness in America. He felt his throat constrict as his stomach dropped, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. Breaking out into a cold sweat he gasped and struggled for air. Thomas only looked mildly concerned as he grabbed his shirt, his knees starting to buckle under his weight. He let America slide to floor, guiding him down slowly.

"You are so dramatic, Alfred," chided Thomas lifting his chin up slightly so that his cool gaze locked with America's terrified eyes. "It's just a panic attack. It will pass and you'll be fine. I'm going to put you back to bed, though. Clearly, you need more rest."

America offered no resistance as he was easily picked up and carried bridal style back to the bedroom that was beginning to feel much like a jail cell. Being in Thomas's arms helped pacify him, much to his disgust, and by the time he was laid on the bed he was breathing deeply but normally. Crippling distress permeated his mind, gradually and wretchedly creeping through his veins, rendering his body immobile. Never before had he felt so worthless, so trapped and confined. Thomas mindfully removed America's boots, kissed his forehead tenderly, and left the room without a word.

His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, wide and unblinking for a minute. He screwed them shut as his mind raced through desperate scenarios of escape and rescue. Did anyone even have the slightest clue where he was? How could he even possibly escape if he was to be shot on sight? The soldiers would merely drag his corpse back to Thomas and he would revive anew to his present misfortune. His mind kept coming back to the same dreary conclusion. He would remain a captive until Thomas tired of him, and he didn't see that happening anytime soon. And there was the possibility that Thomas was actually capable of killing him. Or he may lose his status as a nation to him and cease to exist.

To remain a captive until death truly was a horrendous thought. Some part of him knew that they could not both continue to exist after the civil war. Beyond that it was all speculation, and none of it was pleasant. His pride was rapidly vanishing in light of the new turn of events, dashed away by panic and fear. It was clouding his mind as efficiently as the exhaustion, and he could not formulate any helpful, coherent thought. With nothing else to do and anxiety settling into his core, he rolled onto his side and tried to sleep.

* * *

The informant's plantation house came into view through the numerous oak trees and Russia felt both relieved and tense. He did marvel at the beauty of these majestic and foreign southern houses that were usually large and opulent. Some of them were more modest than others, but most of the ones he and John had happened upon were quite grand and lovely to behold. The one they currently rode up to was no exception, and was one of the larger ones he had seen.

A woman rushed over to them as they dismounted and took the reins of both horses. She avoided eye contact as she led the animals away to the nearby stable. Both men stretched briefly and started walking towards the house. A man stood on the porch, leaning against one of the large pillars. He wore a simple outfit and a hat with a wide brim that he had tipped down, obscuring his face as he picked at his nails. Russia and John stopped a decent distance from the steps, not wanting to invade the man's house without confirmation of his identity.

"Hello, friend," called out John. "Would you happen to be Samuel Carter?"

"No, sir," answered the man promptly, peering at them discreetly from beneath his hat's brim. "I'm afraid Mr. Carter is not currently available."

"We have urgent business to discuss with him," explained John. He knew it was not uncommon for the plantation master to be out in the fields during the day. "Would it be possible to meet with him here soon?"

"No, I don't think that's going to be possible," drawled the man after some thought. He pushed off from the pillar and took a couple deliberate steps down the stairs.

"We did mention that our business is urgent, yes?" said Russia quickly tiring of the pointless small talk. Unconsciously, he tugged uncomfortably at the handkerchief around his neck once again. "Why can we not see Mr. Carter?"

"Oh my, what an exotic accent you have, stranger!" said the man in an amused tone. He tilted his hat up to display a crooked smile, and then removed it altogether finally revealing his face.

It took a moment, but sudden, awful realization dawned on Russia nearly paralyzing him with shock. It came crashing down on him like a torrent of water and his body felt heavy and cumbersome, almost too difficult to move. His stomach flipped, eyes widened, he broke into a cold sweat, balled his fists, and fell into a defensive stance. If he had not been battle-hardened, he probably would have just turned and fled. John noticed his state and tossed several concerned and questioning glances his way.

"So…you've noticed," said the man walking down the remaining steps and onto the grass.

"Do not come any closer!" demanded Russia in what he hoped to be a confident voice.

"Alright, no problem," said the man stopping and putting his hands up. "It's nice to finally meet you, Russia. I've heard so much about you recently. My name is Thomas F. Jones."

"What have you done with America, second proxy?" asked Russia narrowing his eyes.

"I don't see how that's any of your business, but I can assure you that he is fine," answered Thomas still smirking. "In fact, I've treated Alfred very well."

"Is he here?"

"You know, I'm actually pretty surprised Lincoln managed to pull together this poor excuse of a rescue attempt," said Thomas crossing his arms and shaking his head. "Sadly, it was doomed to failure before you even started out. Most of the informants you met up with in my territory are still loyal to me, and my soldiers are everywhere in these forests. The only reason you made it this far is because I told them to let you pass through."

"Are you going to let us have him or am I going to have to fight you for him?" said Russia trying to ignore the man's implied threat. It was possible he was bluffing, but his claims sounded very plausible.

"A straight shooter," said Thomas in reference to Russia's no-nonsense attitude. "I like that! I suppose I can be straight with you as well. I've decided to keep Alfred a little longer."

"Then you leave me no choice. I will fight you for him," said Russia taking a threatening step forward, letting his imposing aura leak out a bit around him. "If you claim to know anything about me, you should know that opposing me is generally a bad idea."

"So I've heard," agreed Thomas taking a cautious step back. "Honestly, I don't want to fight you at all. I have no problem with you personally. Is there any way I can convince you to leave peacefully?"

"I'm not leaving without America," said Russia stating what he thought was the obvious. He and Thomas were having a rather redundant conversation.

Thomas shook his head again, uncrossed his arms, and abruptly dashed at John. Russia had no time to react as Thomas delivered a swift uppercut that sent the stunned man flying into the air with the sheer force, before falling to the ground unconscious with a thud. Thomas then spun around gracefully and threw out a couple jabs at Russia. He barely blocked them before they made contact, and quite frankly he was impressed with the proxy's strength. He lashed out a couple times but his attempted strikes were evaded.

As they continued to spar, one thing became blatantly obvious. Thomas was an incredibly worthy opponent. He was fast and strong, eventually managing to land some hits that stung. The pain fueled Russia's rage and he let go of any restraint he had been holding onto. Surging forward he swung heavy fists and thrust solid, bony knees at Thomas. One punch contacted with his ribs and a sharp crack sounded causing the smaller man to wheeze and falter slightly. Unfortunately, it did not slow him down in the least, and they continued their mutual assault.

* * *

The muffled voices outside the house grew louder stirring America from his dazed and half-conscious state. He wanted to ignore it and fall back into a miserable, nearly restless slumber, but the heated discussion had piqued his interest. In all the time he had been at the plantation, he had never heard any type of conversation going on besides the subdued ones between slaves, or the curt ones between Thomas and the soldiers. He slowly crawled from the bed and went to the window, noting how stiff and sore his body felt along the way.

Two men stood in the yard close to the house. One of them was of average height and wore a hat that shielded his face from view, and the other was tall and looked somewhat familiar. He had pale hair, so light it seemed practically translucent as the sun shone upon it, long, well formed limbs, broad hands that were forming fists as he fell into a stance. Thomas started approaching them and the man shifted his head and shouted. The sound of his voice and the brief glance of his face sent realization tumbling through America and he felt foolish that he had not immediately recognized someone so important to him.

For several moments he simply stared at Russia, not really believing that he was there. Surely, he was hallucinating. He was so isolated that nobody could possibly know where he was, let alone a nation that should not be there in the first place. He lifted his hands to the window sill and the effort of it seemed tremendous. He watched as Thomas attacked the stranger and advanced on Russia. The more they fought, the more he accepted that Russia was really there. He started to shake with excitement and his heart felt like it wanted to leap out of his chest with how fast it was pounding.

Hastily, he whirled around, nearly knocked a chair over, and clumsily started tugging on his boots. He hopped towards the door as he finally got the second boot on, and rushed through it, bounding down the stairs as fast as his feet could carry him. He saw a soldier walking towards the door, gun in hand, and wasted little time running up to him and punching him as hard as he could. The man hit the wall, then the floor and America wondered if he had killed him with the blow since he did not appear to be breathing. He had probably been meant to be back up if the odds shifted out of Thomas's favor. So much for that, he thought grabbing the felled soldier's hand gun.

America burst through the French doors and out onto the porch, letting his momentum carry him to the edge of the steps before stopping to assess the situation. Russia caught sight of him and was distracted long enough that Thomas was able to tackle him to the ground. Thomas sat on his chest and began punching his face with vigor, and before America knew what he was doing, his feet were rushing down the stairs. He aimed the revolver in his hand and pulled back the hammer.

"Stop or I'll shoot!" he bellowed feeling delightfully unhinged in that moment.

Thomas instantly froze and put his hands up in defeat. He turned his head to look at America sadly. "You would shoot me…over this…this foreigner?" he asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Absolutely," answered America, "and don't talk about him like that. You have no idea what he means to me. Now, get off of him."

Offering no response but a dramatic sigh, Thomas carefully climbed to his feet allowing Russia to stand and rub at his sore jaw. America and Russia's eyes met and it was once again enough of a distraction for Thomas to dash at America and struggle to pry the gun from his hand. The gun let off an errant shot that seemed much too close for comfort as Russia reluctantly held his ground. Unable to get the gun free from America's iron grip, Thomas settled for wrapping an arm around his neck. He covered America's hand with his own and forced the gun barrel against his temple, struggling the hammer back with a click.

"No," blurted out Russia quietly in fear of startling them into an accidental shot. "Please, do not do this."

"Don't do what?" asked Thomas quirking an eyebrow. "If he agrees to stay with me, I won't have to do anything."

"I don't want to be with you anymore!" protested America desperately as he clawed at the arm barred across his neck. "Go ahead! Shoot me, you fucking lunatic! I don't even care if I stay dead as long as I don't have to be with you!"

Thomas made a small, wounded noise in his throat and seemed genuinely hurt by America's harsh words. "Alfred, you really are a cruel man," he said sorrowfully. "I'll have you know that I never intended to shoot you…but now I feel like shooting someone."

Panic and adrenaline flooded America's body as he felt Thomas's hand tug at his holding the gun. It started to turn towards Russia. He glanced at him nervously and saw that he looked stunned and conflicted, like he wanted to do something, but had no idea what to do that would not result in tragedy for either of them. The gun budged again and America made a split-second decision as he valiantly struggled it back into place against his temple. He could not drag Russia into his messy internal affairs any further than he already had. It was not his place to suffer for his war. He sought out his lover's eyes quickly, happy that they readily met his. Using all of his remaining strength, he wiggled his finger free, jammed it against the trigger, and pulled.

The shot rang out and echoed into the distance and Russia could not help but jump slightly at the sound. It jarred him and seemed to ripple through his body in the worst way possible. Of all the possible outcomes of the scenario, the worst one was playing out right before his very eyes, much to his utter dismay. The only thing that could have possibly made it worse was if Russia had been made to shoot America himself instead.

America's eyes had snapped shut as the bullet tore a destructive path through his brain, and it exited with an impressive spatter of blood and fragments of brain and skull. As his lifeless body collapsed, Thomas sunk to the ground with it, a look of absolute horror plastered on his face. He bent over America and started to sob hugging him and rocking lightly. Apparently, he had not expected nor anticipated this outcome either.

"Hey, asshole!" shouted a decidedly pissed off voice.

Both Thomas and Russia instinctively looked towards it, and before either could properly discern its origin, another gunshot sounded. When Russia noticed that the voice belonged to John, who was now wielding a smoking rifle, he snapped his head back to Thomas. His eyes were blown wide and there was a star-shaped hole in his forehead. A moment later a bit of blood trickled from it as he slumped over America dead.

"I'll get the horses, you get America," said John before slinging the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and running off to the stable.

Russia felt his body respond to the command even before his brain fully processed what it had been told. He hesitantly shoved the proxy off of America thinking that both of them being dead could not possibly be a good thing under current circumstances. Honestly, he did not know if it mattered, and he was glad to see the vile proxy dead for the time being. Gathering America's still and cooling body into his arms, his heart constricted painfully at the sight of him. Besides the relatively neat entrance and slightly gored exit wounds on his head, he looked so peaceful in death, and he hoped it would serve as some kind of reprieve from his recent ordeal.

John returned with the horses and helped Russia heave America's body onto his for transport. It took a couple attempts but they finally found a position that Russia could manage to hold him comfortably without resorting to slinging him face-down, bent over the saddle. John vaulted onto his horse and they rode away at a swift pace.

"The proxy…I mean, Thomas said that he had soldiers in these forests," said Russia glancing around nervously. "How will we make it out if that is true?"

"Don't worry," huffed John. "While you guys were scrapping, I managed to sneak off into the surrounding area and scout a little. There were some soldiers, but I killed them. I don't think there were as many as he would have us believe."

"That's good," said Russia weakly. He was starting to understand why Lincoln had chosen John for this mission. The man was beyond resourceful.

"We need to find a carriage," said John matter-of-factly. "You both are too recognizable, plus there's no telling how long it will take for him to revive. Can't have people see us hauling around a corpse."

"No…of course not," agreed Russia tightening his hold on said corpse.

"I wish we could go back to the last informant's house, but obviously that's not an option anymore," said John, stroking his chin in thought and wincing as he accidentally rubbed the bruise Thomas had left on it. "I have a couple of ideas. One of them is bound to work out."

"I'll leave this delicate matter in your skillful hands then," said Russia. It came out sounding sarcastic, but truthfully, he was extremely grateful. John did not seem to care and nodded, falling back into his customary silence.

True to his word, John procured them a carriage just after nightfall. Naturally, it was stolen, but desperate times called for desperate measures. After they hitched the horses to the carriage, Russia joined America inside, adjusting his limp body so that he was holding it against his own gently. It was an expensive and lovely closed carriage, so it offered them privacy, and Russia made sure to close all of the curtains so that nobody could see them, as John advised. He heard John loading their minimal luggage onto the back quickly before climbing into the driver's seat. Soon the vehicle lurched forward and they moved at a steady pace out of the carriage house and away from the unsuspecting people's residence.

They rode all through the night, both agreeing that they would not stop until they put some decent distance between them and Thomas. Russia fell into a fitful slumber a couple times, knowing that he would be needed to keep watch when they did stop and John slept. The second time he awoke, he felt America's cold skin against him before his vision came into focus to behold his marred head resting on his shoulder, jostling slightly from the movement of the carriage, and leaving smears of blood on the fabric.

The sight of it was awful and horrible to his hazy mind and he stared at it intently, desperately willing it to be a figment of his imagination, or some deranged nightmare that he would soon wake from. When it did not change, when America did not open his brilliant, blue eyes and smile up at him warmly, he felt something twist and snap sharply in his chest. He looked away and let out a shuddering sigh, as gathering tears slipped from his eyes cutting paths down his dirt dusted face. Regardless of how terrible it was to behold America in such a state, he could not even conceive of pushing him away. He finally had his selfish desire granted, and had a chance to hold him again. He continued to cry softly as he held America tighter, eventually drifting back into a troubled sleep. The journey back to Washington was going to be a long one.

* * *

Notes: Sorry this took a while to update. This last month was hectic. I need to make a mental note to write some fluffier RusAme in the future. I made myself sad with this chapter.

Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated and please try to keep them constructive!


	5. As if You've Never Been Away

Notes: Thomas = 2p America & Confederate America / second proxy = 2p

Please take note that this story includes real historical figures portrayed in a fictional manner.

* * *

Ch 5: As if You've Never Been Away

A full day passed before America started to breathe again. Russia had climbed back into the carriage after his watch was over, and quickly noticed the gentle rise and fall of America's chest as he propped his body against his own. It was shallow, but that hardly mattered. The carriage set forth, and he grew giddy at the realization that America's skin was warming. He smoothed one of his hands over golden, blood stained hair and skin happy that the wounds were starting to close. Sleep came easily to him that day.

Another two days passed, and America had still not regained consciousness. It was a little troubling, but there really was no set amount of time it took for any one nation to revive after such trauma. Russia suspected the war may have something to do with it as well. War always slowed down recovery time for them, even if the casualties were not yet significant. Regardless, America's heartbeat was now strong and his breathing even and regular. He took comfort in placing his hand on America's chest to feel the steady thrumming of the vital organ.

As the sun set on the third day, John surprised Russia by stopping at a house. They were relatively close to Washington DC, having about a day and a half of travel left. Russia was wary of the decision, but they had both not slept much in favor of gaining fast distance. Exhaustion had already settled in and he knew their senses had dulled to the point it put them in danger. When he inquired where they were, John had simply responded, "at a friend's".

The friend was a hardened and grisly looking man living by himself in a house that was entirely too large for one person. There were plenty of guest rooms for them to sleep in and the man, introduced as Dennis and nothing more, had kindly cooked them a late meal. Since they had not eaten much during their flight they both fell upon the food ravenously. After he finished eating, Russia thanked Dennis and returned to his room, leaving the men to catch up with each other.

Shutting the door behind him, he glanced at America lying peacefully on the bed before walking over to it and sitting on the edge. First he removed his boots, letting the heavy shoes drop to the floor carelessly. Next, he opened the buttons of his dirty coat and shrugged it off tossing it over the boots. Last he rolled up his sleeves, stood back up, and found the washstand, pouring water from the pitcher into the basin. He praised Dennis's forethought as he took up the basin, several clothes, a towel, and a bar of soap from the stand before returning to the bed.

Russia slowly began to discard America's soiled clothes idly wondering if it would be possible to burn them. He could redress him in his own spare set, but they would be too large. It was a problem for later, he decided as he lifted America's head and set the towel beneath it. Not wanting to get the bed wet, he meticulously washed the blood and dirt from America's hair silently delighting in the fact the larger head wound was now healed over, displaying only a raised, pink scar. The wound on the temple was the same, so small it was barely noticeable. He gently cleaned every part of America's body ritualistically, as if it would cleanse him of his current woes.

After he finished, he removed the damp towel, covered America with the blankets, and dumped the dirty water out the window. Returning the basin to the stand, he poured more water into it, stripped off his clothes and quickly cleaned his own body with much less care. He trudged over to the bed and slipped under the covers. He settled comfortably onto the mattress, soft sheets caressing his bare skin and eliciting a pleased sigh. Gazing at America next to him, it was easy to imagine he was merely sleeping, so he did just that. He scooted closer, content when their warm flesh touched, and draped an arm across America's chest.

"Goodnight, Alfred," he muttered, then immediately fell asleep.

* * *

The first twinge of consciousness was always abrupt and unpleasant. He wished he could say this was the first time he had died, but he had experienced it once before, and it had occurred during a time he would much rather forget. While consciousness did return to some extent, coherent thought took longer to return, as did sight and bodily control. This was the part he hated the most, which was a testament to his impatient nature. Basically he was forced to lie idle in his body, in darkness, and listen to sporadic clips of conversations he could barely comprehend. As his mind gained more cognitive ability, he felt his immobile prison pressing in on him, testing the limits of his sanity.

And then a finger spontaneously twitched, setting off a chain reaction. That first involuntary muscle spasm jarred his body's memory that it could move under its own volition. It felt glorious and thrilling, all of the built up potential desperately excited to be released. With the return of movement, a sense of euphoria flooded throughout his extremities as if to remind him of all of his newly regenerated tissues and brain matter.

America opened his eyes and was met with the blurry sight of a dim ceiling. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbed it absently, and stretched his back and legs relishing in his regained movement. It was nighttime and he was glad the glaring sun had not been his first sight upon reviving as it had been the last time. Gradually, he became aware he was lying naked in a bed, which was not necessarily out of the ordinary after finding yourself dead for a length of time. The slight weight on his chest and heat at his side registered last, and he slowly rolled his head towards its source.

Russia was lying next to him, sleeping soundly, looking much younger in his relaxed state. Of course it was Russia. Nobody else would have stayed with him through such an ordeal and he cringed at the realization of what he had put him through. He had made the decision to shoot himself in desperate hopes of keeping Russia out of his internal affairs, but that plan had probably not worked out as he had heroically intended. He could only imagine how horrifying it must have been to behold. Yet the thought of watching Thomas shoot Russia instantly repulsed him to the point of nausea. No, he had definitely made the right decision.

As much as he wanted to curl into that wonderful warmth at his side and not move for the rest of the night, he felt a distinct urge to stand and test out his new mobility. He carefully slid to the side of the bed and cautiously put weight on his shaking legs, pushing himself up to standing. The first couple steps were precarious, but by the third he was steady and he easily made it to the window. The moon was shining above, in some state of waxing if he recalled correctly, and the surrounding forest was distinctly more northern. He dared to think they were close to DC and he broke out into a relieved grin. Russia had managed to save him, and he was so overwhelmingly happy about it that he ignored the fact that it technically made him a damsel in distress.

America continued to stare out the window, and curiously ran his fingers over his new scars, as he felt his characteristic strength return to him incrementally. A rustle of fabric and a small noise drew his attention back to the bed. He saw Russia shift and grope blindly at the spot where he should have been, then make another noise, much more distressed this time. His smile broadened as he walked back to the bed just in time for Russia to sit up looking disheveled, confused, and slightly panicked.

"It's okay, I'm still here. I just got up to look outside," soothed America climbing onto the bed and smoothing out Russia's hair before letting his hands come to rest on his chest.

Russia's eyes widened briefly, and his expression stayed relatively shocked even as it relaxed. "You're…awake," he said, voice heavy with sleep and emotion.

America intended to respond, but was suddenly pulled into a needy embrace that he returned as well as he could. Russia crushed him against his chest readjusting his hold a few times as he tried to find a way to hug America impossibly closer. Wheezing a little, America forgave the extremity of the hold and ran his hands over Russia's familiar, broad back remapping its expanse in his mind. He could not possibly have wished for a better person to awake to.

Eventually, Russia released America from his embrace to gaze at him fondly yet intensely. He could not stop touching him, running his callused fingers over America's face, through his soft hair, over his shoulders, down his back, around to his abs, down over his hips and thighs, and then back up again. When he reached his face the second time he cupped it gently and leaned in for a kiss, sighing contentedly when their lips finally connected in earnest. It started out slow and chaste, but quickly gained momentum as their tongues met and twined, lips sliding easily against each other. Years of pent up yearning was spilling out, desires and fevered dreams turning into reality.

Russia pushed America down onto the mattress and lay over him, moving from his mouth to press ardent open-mouthed kisses down his neck, over his collar bone, and paused at his pectoral muscles. "Did you dream of me?" he asked before continuing his passionate assault down America's torso.

The question sent America's mind reeling. He knew what Russia meant by asking, but the only clear memories of dreams that came rushing to the surface were of the disturbing nightmares he had suffered through while with Thomas. Yet even through a very distracting haze of arousal, as Russia worked diligently at worshipping every part of his body he could get his mouth on, he knew he had dreamt of the man quite frequently in his four year absence. And more often than not, those dreams had been rather explicit in nature. Ignoring it had proven mostly useless and his entire being had ached with a longing that stubbornly persisted.

"Of course I did," answered America, watching as Russia nudged his legs open and settled between them.

He let out a gasp then a low moan when Russia dipped his head down and firmly licked his hardening cock from base to tip. As he continued to lick and suck him into full hardness, America let his eyes fall shut and rolled his hips gently in appreciation of the skilled mouth at work. A memory of Thomas doing the exact same thing to him flashed in his mind, which really came as no surprise considering their recent and profuse sexual encounters. When the memory continued to play out, he whimpered quietly and opened his eyes to witness the ash blond hair in his lap.

Russia must have felt his eyes on him, or heard his distraught noise, because he suddenly glanced up, eyes glinting violet in the little light that managed to illuminate the room. He kissed his way back to America's mouth, making sure to slide their bodies together as he moved. The kisses were deep but brief, and Russia groaned into America's mouth softly as their erections slid against each other, creating gratifying friction.

"I'm so sorry," said Russia kissing along America's jaw. "I am being very selfish right now, but I cannot control myself."

America laughed and ran his hands through Russia's hair, settling them on the sides of his face and lifting it so he could see him. With his thumbs, he traced the contour of Russia's strong jaw line, the delicate jut of his cheek bones, the pronounced bridge of his nose, the hollows under his eyes, taking an extra moment to notice the light color of his lashes, before finally looking directly into his oddly amethyst hued eyes. He was just as attractive and alluring as he remembered, if not more so.

"God, I've missed you so much," said America smiling warmly. His thumb traced the bow of Russia's lips as he smiled softly in return. Shifting his hips reminded him that they were both still very aroused.

Russia lifted himself up just enough to fit a hand between them and wrap it around both of their pulsing, neglected cocks. His eyes fluttered shut as he started to stroke them both at a steady pace. America kept his gaze fixed on Russia, delighting in the small sighs and moans that tumbled from his mouth as he pumped them diligently. It felt beyond amazing to his newly awakened nerves, and he knew he was not going to last very long.

America took a chance and once again let his eyes close as he tilted his head back, arching his neck and letting out a breathy moan. No unwanted visions visited him as he felt Russia brush his cheek against his neck panting. The waves of pleasure rippling throughout his body were building pressure rapidly with each confident stroke of Russia's hand. His toes started to curl and he clung to the larger man above him, thrusting upward as the pleasure began to peak.

Sensing that America was close to finishing, Russia quickened his pace, his hand sliding easily over their lengths slicked with sweat and precum. "I wish…I was inside of you, Fedya," he whispered directly into America's ear.

The hotly uttered words, in between pants of heavy breath, sent America over the edge. His back arched off of the mattress and his breath caught in his throat as all of his muscles tensed. Thankfully, Russia chose that moment to kiss him and stifle his loud moan as his release surged in forceful, searing rivets between their pressed bodies. The intensity of the orgasm made his vision white out at the edges and he dug his nails into Russia's back as the man continued to pump them vigorously. He was terribly sensitive in his post-revival state and let out a whine at the overwhelming sensations making him twitch.

Maybe Russia had noticed America's discomfort, or maybe he was afraid his final movements would be too rough, because he abruptly released the younger man beneath him and pulled back slightly. His hand immediately sought out his large, engorged arousal and started jerking it fast and desperately. He was putting on a wonderfully erotic show for America, struggling to maintain eye contact as his pleased hums quickly turned into low moans. The last moan faltered, stuttering into a gasp, then a soft cry as Russia stilled his hand and shuddered, ejaculating thickly over America's chest.

Filing every detail of what he had just seen carefully in his memory, America pulled Russia's trembling body back against his own. He readily collapsed, chest heaving with exertion. He stroked Russia's back languidly as he caught his breath, eventually smoothing back sweaty, pale bangs to kiss his forehead.

"Hey," said America quietly as his post-coital bliss began to fade and rational thought marginally returned. "Not to sound ungrateful, but…why are you here?"

Russia's body tensed and he shifted himself off of America to lie beside him. "I have news I want to share with you personally…" his voice trailed off and his expression grew troubled.

"Oh no, is it bad?" asked America propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at his companion with concern.

"No…it's good news, but…" Russia fell silent and averted his gaze, fidgeting with the bunched up sheets beneath him.

"Please tell me," pleaded America. "You came all of the way here for a reason. It must be important."

Russia glanced back at him nervously. "The true reason I came is because I wanted to see you again," he confessed with a sigh. Slowly, he rose into a sitting position suddenly acutely aware of how sticky and sweaty he was.

America stared at him expectantly, practically vibrating with curiosity, which was refreshingly familiar. He would not demean him by making him swear vain promises to not get upset. Under different circumstances his news would probably be joyously received.

"My boss, Alexander II, has abolished serfdom at my home," he muttered getting straight to the point. He left out the added, on-going commentary of how his last couple bosses thought the United States use of slaves was inhumane. Their effort to be rid of it was the cause of America's current conflict. "I…wanted to share my news with you personally before telling anyone else, though I am sure it has already reached your clever president by now."

America's face lit up ever so briefly, and he continued to smile as the rest of his expression fell around it. Tears gathered in his eyes and fell unbidden as he let out a small laugh. "I'm so happy for you, Russia! That really is great news!" he said before turning his back to him and sliding to the side of the bed.

"America, I'm sorry," he said reaching out to comfort him. His hand closed on empty air as America swiftly stood up and walked away.

"Why?" he asked scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand as he came to a stop at the washstand. He took up a clean rag and the basin, not really paying any mind to the fact that the water in it was slightly dirty. Returning to the bed, he set the basin down on it, wet the rag and began cleaning the sticky mess from his chest.

Russia did not want to answer the question. He watched as America cleaned himself and more tears fell from his eyes as he worked. Sniffling and wiping at his eyes again, he handed the cloth to Russia, who merely stared at it like he had no idea what to do with it.

"Please, don't look so sad," said America shaking his head. Retracting his arm, he dunked the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and set to cleaning Russia himself.

"That should be my line," said Russia. He inhaled sharply when the rag dipped between his legs.

With a shrug, America tossed the rag into the basin and returned it to the stand. "I don't know what to think. I'm sad, confused, and angry," he said as he walked back to the bed and crawled onto it. "Isn't that normal for someone in my situation?"

At a loss for words, Russia resorted to tugging America against him as he lay back down on the bed. He pulled some covers over them as America adjusted himself more comfortably in his arms.

"I can't believe nobody ever told me this could happen," mumbled America drowsily. "I have so many questions…"

"I will do my best to answer them, but for now let's rest," said Russia feeling his fatigue starting to get the best of him. Thankfully, America accepted his response and soon started snoring lightly. He pressed one last kiss to his head before joining him in slumber.

* * *

Despite their nighttime activities, Russia and America managed to rise fairly early in the morning. America had agreed that he did not want to wear his old clothes and gladly donned Russia's spare set, even though they hung awkwardly loose on his frame. They then ventured out of the room to find John and Dennis just starting to eat breakfast.

"Oh, you're awake!" said John sounding uncharacteristically surprised. "Welcome back, Alfred," he added with a smirk.

"It's good to see you again, John," said America happily as he sat down and immediately started piling food on his plate. "I should have figured you would tag along." He felt rather guilty he had not realized he was present during the rescue.

"So you two are previously acquainted?" asked Russia as he sat at the table.

"John is an old friend of mine," said America between bites. "He's good at everything he does and has saved my sorry ass before. I'm still trying to convince him to join our armed forces."

"That's not going to happen, but I will gladly help you out again if necessary," said John and Dennis chuckled at that.

Breakfast was over quickly, America was better-dressed in a set of Dennis's clothes since they were roughly the same size, and farewells were exchanged. America promised to properly compensate Dennis for his gracious hospitality, but he adamantly refused claiming he wanted for nothing. John had insisted that Russia and America continue to stay hidden away in the carriage for the day just to be on the safe side. They were grateful for the chance to continue their reunion.

"How much do you know about second proxies?" asked America as Russia held him and idly traced his fingers up and down his arm.

"Sadly, not as much as I'd like," said Russia leaning over slightly to kiss America's head, inhaling the unique scent of his hair as he did so. It smelled faintly of salt water and summer air, just as it always had.

America sighed. "When I was with him…with Thomas," the name still felt bitter in his mouth, "I felt like I was slowly losing my mind…it almost felt like I was becoming a different person. I had nightmares…horrible nightmares, every night, and the longer I was there the less I could think straight."

"I have heard others speak of nightmares," said Russia recalling a conversation he had with France about his proxy. He had been one of the very few willing to have a candid conversation about his experience. Most nations avoided the topic entirely.

"You know, the only reason I knew that Thomas was a second proxy in the first place was because England told me in a dream," explained America crossly. "He said they were 'harbingers of disturbance, war, and death'. I thought that was funny because we can't die, but apparently we can. Another thing he never bothered to tell me."

"I'm sorry, America," said Russia sadly. His heart truly went out to his unfortunate lover. He was terribly young to be having such troubles, but his development had been, and continued to be, freakishly fast. Somehow he felt in his core that the conflict was going to be massive and take a considerable toll on America. He would expect nothing less of his people since they tended to be passionate in most of their affairs.

"This is going to get big," muttered America morosely as if following Russia's internal thoughts. He suddenly shifted out of Russia's hold. "You were in one of my nightmares. You killed me."

"What? Why would I…"

"Because I was unfaithful to you," stated America simply.

Russia caught the meaning of America's words immediately. He was not speaking of the dream anymore. It would be a lie to say that the news did not hurt, and his heart definitely sunk at the realization. Yet, a bigger part of him was fairly happy America had chosen to be honest with him relatively quickly. "You slept with the second proxy," he said quietly, unable to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

America nodded as tears started gathering in his eyes once again. He was getting pretty tired of crying but he could not stop them. "I'm sorry," he said lowering his head, watching as his vision blurred and tears fell onto the cloth of his pants. "Would it make a difference if I said he forced me to? I…couldn't resist him."

"It's okay, Alfred," said Russia ignoring the dull ache in his chest. He remembered France speaking of something very similar as well. "Under the circumstances, I do not blame you."

"I don't deserve your kindness," said America shrinking away from Russia and leaning against the wall of the carriage.

"You are being ridiculous," sighed Russia hooking a hand around America's waist and yanking him back to his side. He did not put up a struggle, instead opting to rest his head against Russia's shoulder. "I care very deeply for you," he said as he wound his arm more securely around America. "This news does not change how I feel."

"Thank you," said America after a notable pause. "Thank you for being here for me."

Russia turned America's head towards his to kiss him slowly, savoring how soft and supple his lips were. America yielded so wonderfully to him, his body relaxing as he turned slightly to gain better access. The kiss tapered off and America settled against Russia with a yawn. Despite getting what he thought to be an excessive amount of rest recently, he felt exhausted. Comfortable and relieved, he started to drift in and out of consciousness. Distantly, he heard Russia speaking, but he could not understand the words. Whether it was because of his lack of focus or the fact Russia was speaking in his native tongue, he did not know. Either way, his voice soothed him and chased away any potential nightmares.

Their carriage was intercepted shortly after nightfall and escorted to the Executive Mansion as discreetly as possible. As the trio walked into the mansion, President Lincoln met them in the entrance hall looking as if he had rushed to arrive. When his eyes fell on America, his expression lit up considerably and he ran forward to embrace him laughing happily.

"Thank god you're alright, Alfred!" said Lincoln clapping the boy soundly on the back a handful of times before releasing him. "Welcome home, son!"

"Thank you, sir," said America with a sheepish grin. "It's great to be back, and I have these two to thank for it." He gestured to the men flanking him.

"Yes, of course!" Lincoln shook Russia's hand enthusiastically then moved to give John a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Thank you very much, gentlemen. Your efforts for our nation are greatly appreciated and will be well compensated, I promise."

"You're welcome, and that will not be necessary," said Russia reaching to tug his handkerchief up a little. He was glad his scarf would soon be within his grasp again.

"Alfred, do you have a moment to speak with me in private, or are you too tired?" asked Lincoln returning his full attention to the nation, looking him over like a worried parent.

"I can talk with you. It's not a problem," he answered promptly.

"Great!" Lincoln waved over a guard that was standing in the distance. "Please, escort these gentlemen to their rooms. I'm sure they're in need of rest."

"No need, Mr. President," said John, speaking up for the first time. "I'll be taking my leave. You know where to reach me if you need me." Without waiting for any proper farewells, he spun on his heel and left.

Russia watched John quickly retreat and imagined him to be a kind of specter that appeared and vanished frequently at will. When he glanced back he saw America and Lincoln walking away chatting quietly. The guard urged him to follow as he led the way to the room he had occupied before he had left. As they walked through the monumental structure, he tried to memorize the way to his room. When they finally arrived, he shut the door behind himself and sighed as a feeling of completion settled in.

All of his personal belongings were exactly where he had left them. The first thing that he thought to do was strip out of the foreign clothes he wore. He had grown somewhat accustomed to them, but they were soiled and too reminiscent of his recent arduous journey. He fished his nightgown out of his trunk and put it on, taking a moment to run his hands over the familiar fabric. His hand stilled at his heart and a sudden heaviness descended upon him. Figuring it was exhaustion catching up to him he moved to the bed and lay down. He hoped America would not be with his president long but realistically they would probably be talking for a while. Secure in the knowledge America was at the very least safe, yet sadly not in his arms, he tried to sleep.

* * *

Notes: Finally, some honest interaction between these two! There will be more in the next chapter as well.

Thank you for reading! Reviews are appreciated and please try to keep them constructive!


	6. Inconvenient Truths

Notes & Warning: This story portrays 2p America as the Confederate States of America and depicts real historical figures in a fictional setting.

* * *

Ch 6: Inconvenient Truths

America awoke in a slight panic before realizing he was in a familiar bed, lying comfortably on his spacious bed. He had stayed up relatively late conversing with President Lincoln about his kidnap and rescue. It had proven to be quite embarrassing at some points since he could not bring himself to lie to the man leading the country of which he was a personification. All of his sexual exploits with the enemy had been bared and he felt an odd mixture of relief and mortification. He had also told Lincoln of his death and revival riddled with guilt as the man wept for him.

The state of the country had obviously gotten worse while America was away. Lincoln informed him that many of his Southern states had seceded and the Confederacy had grown larger than he had thought it would. Morosely, America knew that this meant Thomas was growing stronger as well. He would not be surprised to hear that Thomas had even reanimated faster than himself. The mere thought made his stomach churn. There was much more to discuss but Lincoln was due to get up early and called it a night.

For several moments, he merely lay there, seriously considering going back to sleep. The excessive rest from the previous day must have served him well because he felt entirely too antsy to fall asleep. He sat up and stretched, looked out the window at the morning sky. The first thing he did after freshening up was dress in his own clothes. Secondly, he fished around in his dresser until he found a spare set of glasses. The pair he had donned on his journey had been lost in the forest after he had been knocked unconscious. He had not really put much thought into their loss at the time since his sight was not truly bad. It really was the least of his worries. Vaguely, he wondered if Thomas had retrieved them, but shook the thought from his head.

A knock sounded at his door, startling him.

"Come in!" he called. His voice lacked its usual cheer and he cringed at the dull tone.

"Alfred?" came a soft voice through the cracked door.

"Matthew?" asked America slamming the dresser drawer shut so suddenly it nearly cracked. He watched in shock as Canada slipped into the room and gazed hopefully at him.

A heartbeat passed before they both broke into a run and collided happily with each other, embracing like they had not seen the other in decades. Canada's laugh, subdued sobs, and gentle embrace were like a soothing balm on his soul, and America drank it all in greedily. He readjusted his hold on Canada several times, ever careful not to crush even if he was vastly stronger than he appeared. Eventually, America's hands settled in Canada's soft, golden curls, and he pulled back, moving them to frame his similar face.

"Canada…why are you here?" he asked unable to keep the grin from his face. He absently wiped away tears with his thumbs seeking contact with his northern neighbor's violet hued eyes.

"I was worried about you," offered Canada finally meeting America's gaze. "I kept hearing rumors about what was going on…so, I came to check on you….and you were gone." He nearly choked on the last word, tears beginning to slip down his cheeks once again.

"Shhh…it's okay," soothed America pulling him in for another hug. "I'm here now."

Canada allowed himself to be held for a few minutes but eventually pulled away. "I hope you appreciate this because I'm probably going to get in a lot of trouble for coming here," he mumbled grasping at America's shirt and staring intently at his chest with a frown.

America smiled softly. "I appreciate it more than you'll ever know," he said sincerely. "You're an amazing person. Thank you, Matthew."

Canada blushed prettily at the praise and sputtered out a "you're welcome". It was a beautiful and pure moment that seemed to further cleanse him of his recent woes. America ended up tugging him to a nearby loveseat, keeping Canada close as he gave him a brief summary of what had befallen him. As always, Canada lent a sympathetic ear, overwhelmed to tears at the point of America's self-inflicted death. He really wished people would stop crying over that.

"This is…actually pretty troubling knowledge," said Canada thoughtfully. "England and France never told me of such things either. Why would they think sheltering us was appropriate?"

"I don't know," said America shaking his head. "To be honest, I'm pretty upset with England for withholding the information. But the more I think about my experience, the more I think maybe he really was just trying to protect me from a terrible truth. It's so strange to be around a proxy, Matt…it feels like you slowly start to lose your mind, piece by piece…like they're taking it from you or sucking out little parts of your soul."

"Jesus, Alfred, that's awful," said Canada giving America a properly horrified look.

"I know. And I hope you never have to go through it."

Before Canada had a chance to reply, another knock interrupted them. A maid demurely poked her head into the room and gasped.

"Oh, Mr. Jones, I'm so sorry!" she spoke in a rush. "I thought you would still be asleep!"

"It's fine! What do you need?"

"Breakfast is being served if you-"

America jumped to his feet enthusiastically, shocking Canada and cutting off the woman. "I am _starving!_ Let's go, Matt!"

Canada was unceremoniously tugged to his feet and out the door, past the stunned woman. As they walked down the hall to the dining room, Canada noticed that America's smile appeared forced. It deeply troubled him but considering the recent incidents he chose not to address it directly. Tact was one of his greatest strengths. He tried to process everything he had been told, his mind fixating on obscure details like how Thomas smelled or how greatly exaggerated sensation had felt. It settled in his core heavily, disturbing him on a level he never knew existed. He was seriously considering confronting England and France about this taboo subject. Even with his legendary tact, he felt that this was something even he could not keep his mouth shut about.

* * *

Russia sat at the dining room table a bit dazed and politely waiting for America to show up for breakfast. The President and his family had dined earlier as he had meetings to attend and Russia was glad for the privacy. He caught the eyes of a pretty maid and smiled causing her to blush and avert her gaze. A thump sounded as the door was thrown open and he was surprised to see not only America but Canada enter the room. Jealously immediately threatened to creep into his mood, but honestly who could be jealous of the amazingly polite and gentle Canada? He did not think the boy possessed any true ill intent, but still the way America gazed at Canada so softly…had he ever looked at him that way?

"Ivan!" exclaimed America upon noticing him.

Ah, but there it was. The excitement that lit up America's vibrant blue eyes from within, made them sparkle and shine like multifaceted gems. It was true fondness and affection, a unique and wonderful reaction that only Russia could elicit. His heart soared for it and he struggled not to rise from his chair and embrace the man in his happiness. Public displays of affection were generally discouraged between their kind in such political settings, but still…it was America, the young, bold new country intent on shirking the traditions of old…

America bent over his chair and threw his arms around Russia, hugging him strongly and for a tad longer than necessary. In lieu of a response, Russia sighed contentedly and awkwardly attempted to return the embrace. Canada said nothing and smiled as he took a seat opposite them.

"I'm sorry about last night," whispered America into his ear, then pulled away to take a seat next to him. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he added with a wink.

Blushing slightly, Russia coughed and cast his gaze to Canada whom had begun piling food on his plate. Apparently, his appetite was similar to America's by the large portions he was amassing. "I did not know you were still here, Canada," he said amiably. "It was very considerate of you to wait so long for your neighbors return."

Having just shoved a piece of hotcake into his mouth, Canada mumbled an apology before responding. "Actually, I've been here far too long and I'm positive it's going to backlash on me somehow," he said regretfully. "Now that I know America is safe, I'm going to be leaving as soon as possible. Probably after breakfast."

"I don't like that one bit but I understand," said America already piling his food equally as high as Canada. He started enthusiastically eating some fried potatoes. Noticing Russia still had not selected any food he loaded some items onto his plate for him.

Russia looked at his plate with an almost stunned expression, then to America's hand as it retreated. He let his eyes trail up America's arm to his face slowly taking in the familiar details. He belatedly noticed America was once again wearing his glasses. Yes, they had been absent up until recently now that he thought about it. The anxiety of his long journey had worn off, and coupled with a fitful nights rest, Russia felt fairly numb and exhausted. Truthfully, he had wanted nothing more than to sleep through the entire morning, but loathed the idea he would miss spending time with America.

He started to eat mechanically since he was fairly hungry, glancing infrequently at America and Canada as they ate. They both seemed troubled but were too busy stuffing their faces to converse. The mood was tense and Russia was too damn tired to properly care. His weary mind would be satisfied with nothing less than being with America intimately, however he could. Sadly, he was in the same situation Canada was, though not as pressing. He had not been gone too long, but had tragically spent a majority of his trip away from America. There were only days left before he was scheduled to return home. In desperation, he considered defying his boss and staying longer. It was a terrible and selfish idea and he sighed around a piece of corn bread in his mouth.

America tossed him a worried look nearly finished with his large portion of food. Russia smiled warmly and reassured him that he was merely tired. America did not appear very convinced but let it go for the time being. They finished eating soon after and saw Canada off to his carriage. The neighbors shared a heart-felt embrace and whispered some affectionate parting words into each other's ears. America looked genuinely upset to see Canada go, watching the carriage move away until it disappeared from sight.

While they were walking through the massive house, Russia staggered on a set of stairs and was delighted to feel America's strong hands steady him. He was further elated when America gripped him by the arms and turned him towards him.

"You don't look very well," he said tracing a thumb along the puffy skin under Russia's eye. "Let's go lay down so you can rest. I don't have anything to do today anyways."

Russia nodded and let America lead him the considerable distance back to his bedroom. He nearly sighed when America set to removing his boots and dress coat. He stripped Russia down to his underwear and ordered him into bed. He gladly obeyed and crawled under the covers, watching through his pale lashes as America drew the curtains closed, locked the door, and disrobed himself. His lazy pulse sped up when America tossed aside every scrap of clothing, including his underwear, and slid under the covers next to him.

"There are so many things I want to do to you right now, but please, get some rest," spoke America as he lined up against Russia's backside and wrapped an arm around him.

Russia offered no response and sighed happily against his pillow before drifting into slumber. America had deemed himself well rested, but quickly became drowsy. Mere minutes passed before he too fell asleep.

* * *

Cannon fire startled him as he stood on a grassy hill. Two more deafening booms sounded dangerously close and he jolted with each one. Rifles fired, men rushed around and past him, smoke clouded the air. There was yelling and screaming, metal scraping and clanging together. A random explosion detonated beside him spraying him with earth and debris, but somehow it did not harm him even as it disheveled his hair.

Why was he out in the open? The uniforms some men wore reminded him of something familiar, so close to the surface of his mind. He swiveled his head around searching for cover and promptly froze.

"Beautiful," sighed Thomas dressed in a decorated general's uniform, but of the wrong color and design. One arm rested regally on the sword at his hip. "Look at our people fighting so bravely. Are they not marvelous?"

America balked at the question. "You're insane," he said raising his voice over the noise. "War is never beautiful…it's tragic."

Thomas turned soulful russet eyes towards him and smiled softly. "Can't it be both beautiful and tragic?" he asked.

"Our people are killing each other. I find no beauty in that. Only pain." And it was true. His body physically ached the longer he stood.

"It can't be all that bad for a man that willingly shot himself in the head," retorted Thomas. He was still smiling but a sinister shadow lurked beneath the façade, his eyes alight with some unknown emotion. "How incredibly and horribly cruel that you would rather be dead than by my side."

Sporadic memories flooded America's mind and he frowned, reaching up to adjust his glasses and once again finding them missing. "I could not let you shoot him," he spat defensively.

"Your foreign lover?" asked Thomas, then laughed. "He doesn't deserve you and he certainly won't ever understand you. Besides, his death would have only been temporary…just like ours."

"How long did it take you to revive?" asked America after a considerable pause. The battle still raged around them yet somehow seemed to fade into the background.

"One day," answered Thomas still gazing intently at America. He had not once taken his eyes off of him since setting them upon him. "It was not as unpleasant as I expected, but waking up was…uncomfortable."

America almost asked him why. Waking up from the dead had been the easiest part of both of his revivals. It was the period of being trapped in an immobile body before it that wore on his sanity. He filed the information away for later use. They were clearly not the same entity if they revived differently.

"I'm glad you were not the person that shot me," whispered Thomas suddenly very close to America.

America tried and failed to suppress a shudder at the proximity. He could feel Thomas's breath ghosting across his jaw as he leaned in even closer. Every fiber in his being urged him to reach out and Thomas. Touch him in any way possible. He felt possessed, struggling valiantly not to turn his head the marginal distance required to press their faces together.

"You're so strong, Alfred," praised Thomas. "Maybe…maybe enough to survive this. There are going to be so many battles…surely large ones fraught with casualties. That must be what we are seeing now. I will definitely grow stronger. I may even win…I want to win-"

"You're not going to win," snapped America recoiling from Thomas as he attempted to lay a hand on his shoulder. "What you stand for can no longer be tolerated and I will personally see to your defeat."

"How heroic!" mocked Thomas with a lazy smile. He suddenly closed the gap between them, grasping America's arms harshly. "Don't fool yourself, my love," he continued, a manic edge to his voice. "You grow weaker and more insecure by the day. I made sure of that, and I will continue to do so. I will slowly seep into your mind, dream by dream, and corrode you from within."

Letting out a whimper, America tried to struggle out of the iron grip. "You can't do that!" he shouted, but knew it was a lie. He let out a sob next as Thomas squeezed harder and jerked America's body against his. "Why?! Why are you doing this?! You said you loved me!"

"Because," sighed Thomas releasing an arm to grab America's jaw and force their eyes to meet, "it's what I came into existence to do, the purpose I must fulfill."

"I still don't understand," whined America shifting against Thomas and hating that it felt so good.

"My poor, naïve Alfred," cooed Thomas releasing his other arm only to wrap his around America's waist, still holding his face immobile in a viciously strong grasp. "I exist to oppose you, as you well know. I did not expect to fall in love with you. This has made my job much more…difficult. As much as I desire to let you be…let you win, I cannot fight my nature."

"You…want to let me win?" asked America. It was the only thing he truly managed to latch onto during the explanation.

"I do," said Thomas. "The part of me that is an individual, however small, wants…just wants you to be happy. A larger part of me, the part born of the indignant populace, wants you to lose…to suffer. It bears with it such selfishness and anger…I am unable to resist."

America remained silent, staring wide eyed at Thomas as he attempted to process the important information. It was refreshing to know that Thomas was conflicted as well, but somehow he felt like he was getting the worse treatment. The confession was interesting, but put America at no true advantage. It merely confirmed that Thomas was grossly unstable and unpredictably volatile.

Just as America opened his mouth to respond in defiance, a particularly loud explosion went off to their left tossing dirt and shrapnel all around them. Instinctively, America ducked against Thomas to seek cover, but the debris passed harmlessly through them.

"I'm sorry," muttered Thomas into America's hair as he held his hunched form protectively. "For what I am and what I am meant to do…I am sorry."

* * *

America stirred to consciousness with tears in his eyes. He scrubbed at them angrily. Even though the dream had not been a nightmare, and no one had tried to kill or torture him, he felt infinitely more disturbed by it. He wanted to hate Thomas, not feel sorry for him. Thinking that he was practically powerless to defy his purpose was miserably depressing, and as a nation he understood it all too well. Naturally, it was never really an issue until you developed emotions contrary to your people. Then it became a living hell of constant inner turmoil.

The sentiment unfortunately drew him back to his time of revolution. At first he had vied against the concept of independence, the part that assumedly made him an individual still wanted to please England. He was the closest thing America had to a parent and he still sought his approval. It was usually hard won with England, and eventually his poor personal treatment of America pushed him over the edge. He wondered, with no small measure of fear, if he ever even had a choice of his own to begin with.

With a heavy sigh, America banished all thought of England from his mind and rolled onto his side. He instinctively curled around the broad back presented to him with a pleased hum. Carefully, he wound an arm around Russia's torso, pressing his hand against the light dusting of chest hair to feel the steady thrum of his heart. His worries seemed to melt away with each sure beat and he reveled in the purity of the moment.

"What am I going to do without you?" whispered America sadly.

Russia shifted and made a small noise as he stirred. He yawned and rubbed his eyes before turning his head to glance at America. A smile graced his features as he carefully rolled over and stared tiredly at America's mouth. He absently brought a hand up to trace the bottom lip with his thumb, his own lips parting in imitation.

America scooted forward, causing the thumb to slip off to the side of his face, pressing his lips eagerly to Russia's. Warmth ignited in his chest and traveled down to his groin at the enthusiastic reciprocation. They were kissing like it was their last act on earth, like men slotted for execution, mouths trying to consume, hands desperately seeking expanses flesh.

"Please…please," begged America momentarily tearing his mouth free. He did not care if he sounded pathetic. "I need to know."

"Need to know what, dearest?" asked Russia between a few chaste kisses to various body parts he could reach.

"If you still feel the same…inside me," he breathed sliding his hand down between Russia's legs for emphasis.

Russia gasped softly as his eyes fell shut briefly. He suddenly withdrew from the bed to rifle through his trunk and retrieved a small vial, slipping out of his underwear before he returned. America received him warmly and Russia kissed him leisurely, savoring the taste and feel he had long missed. He knew exactly what was so enticing about the young nation now in his arms, but liked to think he was enamored with him for different reasons than most nations. There was a distinct spark of chemistry between them that defied logic, and he often wondered how much of it was due to him and how much his people.

Intent on remapping America's body, Russia pushed him onto his back and started mouthing his way down his neck and chest. He delighted in the way the finely toned muscles shifted and twitched beneath skin as he kissed and licked. Pausing at the ridge of a hip, he sucked for a moment causing a light purple bruise to blossom on the surface. Satisfied, he ran a thumb over the mark and situated himself comfortably between America's thighs.

Shifting slightly, America gazed down half expecting to see a head of dark auburn hair nestled between his legs, but was happy to once again see ash blond. He heard the vial pop open and that distinct noise reminded him of his encounters with Thomas. The fingers that soon started to prod his entrance quickly dashed the stray thought away.

America hissed as the first finger sunk into him incrementally. As careful as he tried to be, Russia had large fingers and America was still oversensitive. He was definitely aware of the feedback America was giving, however, and set to stretching him slowly. After the second finger, Russia only had to search briefly before finding his prostate. He hit it three times in a row causing America to arch his back off the bed and nearly come on the spot. A third finger joined and he started to see stars dancing in his vision.

"St-stop!" he gasped grabbing fistfuls of pale hair and tugging seconds before Russia intended to take him into his mouth. "We're…not going to get far if you keep that up."

"Ah yes," said Russia with a small knowing smile. "Revival does make us quite sensitive." He pulled his fingers free and sat up. As if to prove his point, he ran a hand lightly up the underside of America's erection causing him to jerk up towards the slight friction.

"Don't tease me," he snapped. "Just…get on with it already."

"As you wish."

Impatience finally won out, and Russia quickly slicked himself up and tugged America towards him by the legs. Once in position, he lined the head of his cock up with America's entrance and pushed in slowly. He was barely half way in when America let out a pained groan causing Russia to stop.

"I'm fine…keep going," he said between heaving breaths. "You're ridiculously large…but I'm strong. I can handle it."

Russia knew that was the truth, and he chuckled as it brought up a memory of their first time together. He had been fully ready to give up upon realizing he was hurting his lover, but America had insisted they continue, proclaiming confidently that he could handle anything Russia had to offer. He had been right of course, and it had turned into a night Russia would never forget.

Bolstered by America's words and fond memories, Russia continued to press in until he could go no further. America's face scrunched up and he gripped the sheets so tightly they nearly tore. He gave him a moment to adjust, noticed his breathing evening out a little, and pulled out partially before pressing back in smoothly. He noticed America biting his lip to keep from crying out, but continued his gentle pace.

The thrusts were fluid and practiced, and eventually America started to respond as he normally did during their encounters. His body relaxed, accepting the intrusion and then eagerly pushed back against it, seeking to aid the rhythm. Russia wanted to tell him how great it was, how it felt like coming home after a long, weary journey, how much his heart swelled with contentment at their reunion, and on a more sensual note, how deliciously tight he felt. It was like their first time all over again, except laden with so much more emotion he was struck silent before its intensity.

America found himself in a similar state, wanting to babble on and on about how amazing it felt after his body adjusted, but could get no sounds past his lips but gasps and moans. Not only did Russia feel the same inside of him, but somehow more profoundly passionate. Surely it was the byproduct of a connection forged through decades of earnest endearment and loving interaction. To say he was smitten would have been an understatement. He was so insanely happy at the realization their attachment had survived his folly that it brought tears to his eyes.

Noticing his tears, Russia leaned down to soothe America, smoothing his bangs away from his forehead and kissing him as long as his panting would allow. Their position has shifted slightly with this movement, trapping America's straining erection between their slick bodies and creating some much needed friction. Sensing America was close, Russia pulled back marginally and slipped his hand down to curl around his neglected cock. Three confident strokes had America going rigid, and with a low groan that seemed to reverberate off the walls he came over Russia's hand and his own chest.

Satisfied that he had taken care of his lover first, Russia let go of the fragile constraint he was clinging to. It only took a few more well aimed thrusts to push him over the edge. A tremor passed through him making his hips stutter as he spilled hotly into America with staggering waves of pleasure. It knocked the breath clear out of his lungs and sent him into a dizzy spell. America caught him as he lurched forward, wrapping his arms around him and gently supporting him against his chest. He eased a hand through Russia's hair and then over his back as he caught his breath, wincing slightly as Russia shifted and slipped out of him.

"I'm so relieved!" said America with a laugh.

Russia peered at him quizzically through the pale fringe falling over his eyes before sliding to rest at his side. "Relieved?" he asked, the word thickly accented in his exhaustion. He reached out to trace his hand absently from America's jaw down to his collar bone.

"I was really worried," said America quietly, his eyes traveling down to the scar across Russia's heart. His hand moved up to cover it protectively. "I thought after what happened to me…you would feel different…or wrong. Like I'd been changed or tainted."

"Don't be ridiculous, Alfred," he sighed, suddenly pulling America against him, as if him being away from him even a minimal distance was unacceptable. "You are certainly not tainted. You still shine bright and beautiful to me," he muttered into America's hair, "the sun to my moon, always."

Russia had used that analogy to describe them many times in the past, and it comforted him immensely to hear it again. Russia, his beloved. Russia, who was nearly ready to return home. Panic blossomed in his chest and spread to his gut in a sickening wave, chasing away his post coital bliss. America clung to him tightly, his body tensing.

"There, there," said Russia caressing his back in a steady, reassuring manner. "I will come back to you. I will find a way to see you again soon, America. You have my word."

As nations, he knew that personal promises were never truly as honorable as intended. Yet somehow, he believed Russia would do everything in his power to see his word fulfilled. The fact that his Tsar liked him only aided in that endeavor. Perhaps he would even allow Russia to offer support and aid to the Union's efforts. America's anxiety ebbed slightly at that thought.

"Thank you," he spoke against the warm expanse of Russia's chest where his head was nestled. "This means so much to me… _you_ mean so much to me…I would be lost without you."

"It is my pleasure," mumbled Russia clearly close to sleep. "I won't let this hell consume you, solnyshko…"

He continued to speak briefly but did so in his native tongue. America wanted to ask him what he had said, but he was already asleep, face appearing youthful and serene in slumber. With a resigned sigh, America snuggled in closer, reveling in the feel of the tender embrace.

Sleep did not come easily to him, and Thomas's words continued to echo in his mind, haunting him.

* * *

Author Notes: Ho boy was this chapter a long time coming. I honestly gave up on this story for a while due to lack of interest. Especially here. I hope this answers some of the questions about Thomas's erratic behavior and America's weird dreams/nightmares. Come bother me on my tumblr aphmoonchild


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